


Moloch

by grabmotte



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Animal Death, Blasphemy, Brief mention of miscarriage, Canon-Typical Violence, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Related, Episode: s01e04 The Good Soldier, Gen, Heavy Angst, Mild Gore, Pre-Series, Religious Themes, Savoy fic, Survivor Guilt, how they met fic, long chapters, relationship-centred, treville-centric, twenty dead musketeers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-21
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-02 15:53:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 25,774
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2817839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grabmotte/pseuds/grabmotte
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>The cardinal's stories did nothing to alleviate his guilt. If there had been a ram waiting for him in the brush he had burnt it along with the child.</i>
</p><p> </p><p>In the immediate aftermath of the Massacre of Savoy Captain Treville finds himself taking care of a wounded Aramis. Two years later, on the anniversary of the attack, assassins are out for his blood. But they reckoned without the three musketeers. </p><p>Forced to spend Holy Week with Aramis and his companions Treville takes his work family to meet part of his actual family. Also includes Aramis suffering silently, Athos being uncomfortable, and Porthos having to glue the pieces back together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Offering

### Part I – The Offering

**30th of March, 1625. Resurrection Sunday**

The journey to Savoy took just under five days of hard riding; five days of pure torture. The torture lay not in any physical discomfort, so much as in the knowledge that the journey would take as long no matter what he did. Killing the horses would not get them there any faster, so Treville forced himself not to exhaust his mount in senseless galloping. Even so, every time the musketeers exchanged their horses for fresh ones at a relay station the animals were steaming with sweat in the chilly air. Every time they changed to a slower walking pace added to Treville's agony. And each gallop brought a rush that only heightened his senses to his own anxiety. 

If only there had not been this little voice nagging him all the way since leaving Paris; whispering that whatever was supposed to happen had already happened. It was the same voice that asked him why the cardinal should not have protested his leaving if there was even the smallest chance of stopping what had been set in motion. It was the voice that reminded him of the almost pitying looks Richelieu had given him as he petitioned the king to grant him leave. It was the that voice that reminded him of the king's anger at being abandoned during Holy Week, and how beneath this anger there might have glimmered something like a more tender feeling for his friend the captain, that eventually made the king give in to Treville's demands. 

It was the same voice that claimed Treville knew very well what he was going to find in Savoy. And it mocked him for not even having thirty pieces of silver to show for it. 

He knew the plan was to remove a spy from the Savoyard court. But why, why, why had he not insisted the cardinal explain what exactly he hoped to accomplish by handing over information about this training exercise to the Duke of Savoy? Why had he not protested? 

Oh, it was no use now. He knew the answer: He had not inquired further, because by obeying blindly he had been fulfilling his duty to France. He had thought nothing of giving the King and thus Richelieu what he wanted, until in hindsight he had realised how cagey the cardinal had been about the details of his plan, and how relieved he had been when Treville had complied without asking any questions. He had actually sighed! Of course Richelieu had eventually sworn secrecy was necessary not to compromise operations vital to the survival of France. But usually the cardinal was not above gloating – in oh so many subtle ways – whenever he had gotten the captain of the king's musketeers to do something that Treville found distasteful. And Richelieu certainly did not sigh without good reason, least of all happily or otherwise relieved. 

Not even the king had dropped any hints regarding this operation concerning the safety of his very own troops. He had not been obliged to – after all, he was the king – but if the man had any virtues, reticence usually was not one of them. This was what had prompted Treville to ask for leave to go to Savoy and monitor the training mission himself. The king had not been amused. After all, was Treville not supposed to be protecting His Majesty on his traditional public outing during Easter mass? When Treville mentioned that his lieutenant would be able to do the job just as adequately, as he had simply to follow the schedule Treville had already planned out for the occasion the king proved to be even less amused. But he let him go. 

Louis must have known that had he not granted him leave Treville would have felt obliged to invent an illness, a sick relative, fake his own death, otherwise lie to the king, or even resign on the spot. All of which were prospects neither of them cherished. But while by passing on information to Savoy Treville might have done his duty to France, he also owed a duty to his men. 

Thus it was with a feeling of cold foreboding, not to say fear, that Treville eventually crossed the border to Savoy on this Sunday, accompanied by those half dozen of musketeers that had been the fastest to pack and saddle up. His reception in the small alpine dukedom turned out to be the final clue that something definitely was not right. Treville felt his guts turn to ice. A small troop of soldiers was already waiting for him by the side of the road shortly after they had passed the border. Treville had taken the most direct route from Paris into Savoy that road conditions allowed, so if anyone had expected him to come it was no surprise they would expect him here. Apparently the Savoyards had orders to question every traveller coming from France, and after stating his name and business Treville was asked to join their commander. 

They had indeed expected someone to show up, if not Captain Treville himself, the commander had explained. The man also voiced his surprise at Treville having shown up so speedily. Word of the incident, and no doubt very interestingly worded diplomatic letters, had only been exchanged with Paris two days ago. Treville found he was too stunned to explain himself right away or even to admit that he did not know of any letters. 

Consequently they had a rather one-sided conversation standing in a small, badly lit office inside the town's little mairie that Treville was now unlikely to ever forget. Because what the commander did next was offer him the use of the troop of soldiers Treville and his musketeers had encountered on the road, and a pair of supply carts they would gladly empty for him. 

"Whatever for?" Treville asked naively, his brain still refusing to catch on to what the commander was either by cruelty or innocence preparing him for in a shockingly blunt way: "To retrieve the bodies."

* * *

The following march to the site of the incident (or the _attack_ as he might start calling it now) was even more excruciating than the days long journey to Savoy had been. The carts and accompanying foot soldiers slowed down the riders and Treville had to listen to the prattle of the Savoyard soldiers who were constantly making gaudy jokes partly out of boredom and partly out of lack of respect for their French travelling companions. 

Treville did not know what the commander had been told that led to the incident – the attack – but the officer made no attempt to reign in his men. Luckily Treville had taken the precaution to send his musketeers to ride ahead of the carts so they would not be tempted to pick fights with the carefree Savoyards. 

"Good thing you came through Lyon. Further east the weather has turned the roads to slush. Doesn't look like we'll be seeing much of spring here anytime soon." 

Treville grunted in lieu of a reply. 

The commander had not been authorised to tell him anything useful. Instead he repeatedly attempted to start idle conversation about topics Treville could not have cared about less if his life depended on it. First it had been disparaging remarks about the town they had stayed in, then a treatise on what constituted good qualities in a warhorse, and now it was the weather! When all Treville truly wanted was to be alone with his thoughts for a minute. He suspected the commander knew it very well and insisted on prattling on simply to torture him. The man had to be aware of what he was doing to Treville. After all he had just told the captain that a troop of his men lay dead in a god-forsaken alpine forest. 

When they finally entered the clearing Treville at first did not know where to look. The musketeers that had camped here had not simply been attacked and fought a losing battle. They had been butchered. It was not yet midday but the dark shapes of the bodies already stood out starkly against the ground wherever the snow had not yet retreated before the mud or the young grass that was even now forcing its way out into life through mire and blood. The couple of tents that still stood were slashed open. Others lay smashed and trampled on the snowy ground. Here and there darkly stained shapes betrayed bodies covered by the fallen canvas; the ones that didn't lie out in the open. 

It was curious how little he smelled as he drew nearer. Of course the air was chilly enough to turn his breath into clouds, but you still would expect the site of a days-old massacre to reek like a skinner's backyard. To have been robbed of one of his senses by the cold only added to the unreal quality of the scenery before him: It was like stepping into a dream.

Treville dismounted to move among the bodies. They lay on a thin, patchy blanket of old snow that crackled obscenely loud beneath Treville's boots. He could hear every step he took between bodies. 

In each case it was obvious what had killed the soldiers. Most of them had fallen face first into the dirt, with slash wounds to their backs or their skulls smashed in. But a couple of them lay with their faces turned up, presenting their opened throats accusingly to their captain, bewildered expressions frozen onto their faces. The cold alpine spring had so far preserved their features in death. 

That at least should make them easier to identify, Treville thought darkly. 

He had brought the roster for the training exercise with him and would go through it with his sextet of living musketeers once he had convinced the Savoyards to grant them a little privacy. Even though some of the dead men had been fresh recruits he was sure he would not forget any of the names on that list anytime soon, nor, as he looked at the dark shapes at his feet, their faces. 

He stepped over to another corpse and for a moment contemplated the pattern the blood had made as it had seeped over the frozen ground. It had futilely searched for a way to trickle into the earth before drying up in a lake around its owner. Treville fell to his knees next to the body that lay facedown as if he intended to turn it over. But in truth he simply needed not to be standing for a minute – just for a bit until his vision cleared, and to make sure no one would ever see him shaking. And also to suppress the urge to punch the smug Savoyard officer who had led him to this slaughterhouse making small talk.

"Captain Treville!" 

Someone called him out of his stupor, and as he stood up Treville felt himself sway as if the earth had risen up to shake off. The man who had called out to him, Cotard, one of his musketeers, was kneeling between two corpses. One of which moved. 

_Lord, have mercy!_ One of the poor bastards was still alive! 

In a flash Treville was with them. Their survivor was as pale as any of his still comrades as he looked about in a dazed fashion. He was half sitting up with some assistance by Cotard, but not responding at all to the musketeer who tried to draw his attention. He looked just about ready to faint, without question due to the head wound he had sustained. It had been patched up but the bandages looked like they needed changing days ago. 

When the wounded man finally noticed his captain, Treville met that glazed stare without flinching. It was the least he could do. For the life of him, in that moment, he could not even recall the boy's name. Even though he knew it was farcical, Treville took hold of him and told him to take a heart. 

"What happened here?" he asked. Thankfully, mercifully, the boy chose that moment to pass out. 

Had he been able to see the guilt in his captain's eyes? 

Treville shrugged out of his cloak and wrapped it around the young man. He told Cotard to collect the cloaks of his comrades and do the same, before taking their survivor to one of the carts. The poor lad must have out been here for days in the cold, with no tents intact, clothes wet from the snow and with only the corpses of his comrades to keep him company. Getting him warmed up and some food and drink into him should be their most urgent concern. Any questioning would have to be put off until their survivor was more responsive. 

Treville had trouble keeping his tone neutral as he gave his orders, he was so relieved. For interrogating the poor man about what he already guessed to have transpired was a task he dreaded. He was glad to have a reason to postpone it until they had left this graveyard behind.

**March to April, 1625**

Treville eventually decided not to take the bodies all the way back to Paris. The journey was simply too long especially now that they had to take care of a wounded man. Preferring the French party not to linger while relations between their countries were strained the Savoyard commander had grudgingly allowed the musketeers to borrow some of his soldiers until they had reached the first hallowed ground on French soil. There the dead musketeers would be given a proper burial by their own landsmen. 

Accordingly, they had wasted no time passing the border after they had recovered the bodies, stopping at the first suitable settling on the French side. The thought that his men should rot anonymously in this god-forsaken backwater place disgusted Treville, but at least they would now rest in their own country. 

Even after the funeral the musketeers were in no hurry to leave the place. Until they nursed their patient, Aramis, back into a state in which he would survive the rest of their journey to Paris they had to stay put. 

The town they stayed in was altogether unremarkable, hardly worthy of the term and less so of a description. Most prominently it featured a red-nosed, droning priest who had laconically suggested they might well postpone the funeral a day or two since Aramis looked about ready to join his fallen comrades. This way, he had explained, they could finish the job in one go and Treville and his musketeers would not have to return when Aramis finally keeled over later. Treville had almost decked him. Only his catholic upbringing had held him back. 

Despite the opinion of the gloomy priest it turned out Aramis had initially passed out mainly from dehydration and a fever. Bad as that was at least the head wound while certainly painful looked worse than it was. Once it had been cleaned by a surgeon and dressed with fresh bandages it became clear that it would heal nicely. Most likely it would not even end up leaving the young man with a headache. However, in order to clean the wound part of his head had had to be shaved giving Aramis a lopsided, tragicomic look, that turned him into the very image of a proper invalid when Treville finally sat down to question him. 

As he did so Treville could not help but wonder whether truly everything was all right with the young man's head. During the first couple of days Aramis had been shaken by fever dreams; sweating, crying, and often repeating the names of his dead companions. He appeared to be lucid now, but when Treville sat down next to his sickbed it was obvious he still carried shades of those dreams within him. He avoided eye contact as much as possible and when he finally looked at you there was an emptiness to that gaze, a void that tore something right out of you as if to feed itself. What Treville first lost to it on that day was his already shaky conviction that after having conspired with the cardinal for the good of France he would still be able to face himself in the mirror every day. 

Aramis could not tell him much about the attack itself. He had been knocked out pretty early during the fighting and his wound had been treated by a man who deserted shortly after. That was something Treville had already suspected when they had been able to find only twenty bodies in the clearing along with a ripped up uniform cloak in the undergrowth. Aramis also claimed he did not know who had attacked them, but that his friend had suspected the Spanish. Treville agreed that, yes, for now he did assume so as well and he thanked a very successful career as an officer and too much time spent with the cardinal for the effortless lie. 

While Aramis recovered in the little, nameless town Treville would visit him daily. He would force himself to step up to the sickbed and watch the ghoul he had created. Even though the fevers eventually abated, the nightmares lingered. Aramis never mentioned them to his captain. But even had Treville not spent any of these nights at Aramis' side and held his hand as he cried out he would have been able to tell by the sickly pallor and hollowness of his cheeks, and the dark spots under his eyes that the young man found no rest in sleep. 

Days passed before Aramis' condition improved sufficiently for Treville to consider him fit enough to resume their journey. All in all it had taken almost a fortnight from the day Treville had first arrived in Savoy before they arrived back in Paris.

After finally returning to the garrison; after dismissing his soldiers and making sure Aramis would be taken care of, Treville truly considered storming into the cardinal's office and perhaps saying words he would have been unable to take back. Perhaps even uttering something that could be argued to be a most fanciful description for "treason". But in the end he managed to curb his outrage. The cardinal would only have laughed in his face had he tried. 

No, if he was to meet Richelieu head-on Treville needed to clear his head, first. So he locked himself into his office for an hour, at first doing nothing but sitting at his desk and trying to empty his mind. Eventually he got up to tidy some of his papers, wishing his mind to match the order of his office. He even refrained from steadying his nerves with a strong brandy. No sense in confronting the cardinal when the man would be able to smell the alcohol on his breath. It would have been as wise as showing fear in front of a bloodhound. 

Yet, all his great promises to himself to remain calm flew out of the window the second he laid eyes on the cardinal. Sitting there calmly at his desk, in his polished office, raising a curious eyebrow as if he had no idea whence his visitor had just come. 

In that moment the thoughts Treville had tried to banish came flowing back like a torrent to wash away the paper-thin dam his mind had put up in self-defence. They were black thoughts of dark shapes lying motionless on white snow, and of crusts of dried blood splitting open on top of the frozen mud. 

They were thoughts of twenty graves on a sleepy hill in a town without a name. 

Thoughts of Aramis calling out the names of his lost friends in a fever while the young man proved dead to the world of the living. 

Treville had not crossed half the length of the office floor before it burst out of him: 

"You lied to me!" 

It was such a perverse relief to pass on the blame to Richelieu. 

The cardinal did not even lift his head from the hand it rested on when he answered. 

"Lied to you? Whatever are you on about?" 

"What did you tell Savoy my men were doing in his country?" 

Treville was standing right in front of the cardinal's desk now. Richelieu looked up at him from underneath an unfurled brow, unworried, unconcerned. 

"I said nothing. The Duke might have been led to believe by his favourite minister that there was a plan to have him assassinated by French musketeers." 

Treville was speechless for a moment. 

"You sold out my men as common assassins?" 

"Uncommonly dangerous assassins, if it makes you feel better." 

Treville grabbed the hilt of his sword for support. He felt unable to do anything but gawp at the cardinal. His voice had abandoned him. It seemed as if his throat were caught in a vice. For a second or two he might have forgotten how to breathe. 

The cardinal used this moment in which his opposite was incapable of forming complete sentences to continue: 

"Be unconcerned, Captain. The Duke will be out of sorts for a while, especially where musketeers are concerned, but you will have to fear no reprisals. I made sure of it. Savoy by now has been informed of the tragic misunderstanding that took place along his border and there will be no adverse consequences for France. To the contrary—" 

"A misunderstanding?" Treville's voice sounded throaty and raw. As if it had not taken him moments to regain his speech but months. "Twenty of my musketeers lie dead!" 

Richelieu had the gall to smile at him patiently, as though Treville were a child who disbelieved his parents' explanations for why the sky was blue. 

"What am I supposed to do about it?" he asked. "What do you want from me, Captain?" 

_I want my musketeers back!_ But Treville bit back any reply. 

"Oh come now, come. You have won battles at far greater cost. This was a cheap victory. And instead of breaking our alliance with Savoy it is now securer than it has ever been before. We all agreed Cluzet had to be removed and with him gone no one suspects the duchess is our spy." 

Treville only half registered the last line of Richelieu's reasoning. His mind was stuck on the cardinal's peculiar arithmetic. 

"Battles." His head was spinning. "Battles are a different matter. This—" 

"This was what? Butchery? A waste? That is what you were going to say?" 

If Richelieu rolled his eyes at him one more time Treville was going to punch him. The red guards stationed at the other side of the room be damned! If they dared to try and hold him back he would run them through without hesitating. 

"A waste of life," the cardinal repeated in an airy voice when Treville offered no protest. Richelieu looked him in the eye, never flinching, and continued in his usual business tone. "This waste of life allowed France to save face. It allowed us to capture an important spy and saved the life of one of our own. Your poor musketeers died for France as dutifully as if they had been slain in battle." 

This statement might actually have been intended to comfort Treville as much as mock him, or maybe not. With Richelieu one could never be sure. Either way Treville leant down to set his hands firmly on the tabletop. He could just restrain himself from using the same hands to grab the cardinal by his close-fitting collar instead. 

"It's not the same", he growled, gravel evident in his voice. It was no use trying to keep the emotion out of his words. He had lost this particular game the moment he had stepped through the cardinal's door. Let Richelieu relish what he had done to him. What did it matter now? 

"Death in battle is not the same as dying from a knife in the back at the hands of a deceived ally. They did not sign up for your vile backstabbing." 

But his rant did not even elicit a shrug from the cardinal. 

"They signed up to serve and if necessary give up their lives for the protection and continued might of France. And they did." 

Treville grunted and retreated from the desk. 

_Damn you, Richelieu_. 

Despite being a military man himself, the cardinal would not understand, or he stubbornly pretended not to. Where was the remorse? 

Treville paced up and down in front of the ornamented desk in an attempt to walk off his frustration but Richelieu continued on unperturbed: 

"Is that not what is expected of them? Fulfilling their duty to king and country?" 

Treville stopped and turned to face him. "You are a man of the cloth! How can you talk so callously about murder?" 

The cardinal clicked his tongue and he might even have said something more, perhaps about how he was the King's minister first and foremost, but this time Treville would not let him speak. 

"You knew they would be killed when you hatched this plan!" 

"And – I had assumed – so did you." 

"They trusted me!" 

The cardinal sighed and waited for Treville to resort to pacing once more before he spoke again. 

"As I tried telling you, we are in a much better position to deal with Savoy now than we were before." 

"They like being sent assassins, then?" 

Richelieu ignored him. 

"I already reminded you, we both agreed that Cluzet had to be dealt with and sooner rather than later. And through my 'vile backstabbing' as you call it we accomplished much more than that! By feeding his spy false information Savoy now believes the Spanish tried to provoke a war between his little duchy and France in order to drive him into Spain's waiting arms. All that simply by having Cluzet believe, and in turn making Savoy believe that these musketeers were out to kill him. Well, with the poorly informed minister now suspiciously absent from Savoy's court, directly after this failed act of provocation, not only is the duchess safe again, and Spain has lost a valuable agent, but the relationship between Savoy and Spain has soured. And Savoy has to make amends to us for their unfortunate mistake of consorting with Spanish agents behind our backs."

He paused to catch and hold the captain's gaze for a moment as the other man turned once more in front of his desk. 

"It was brilliant," Richelieu concluded. Treville snorted in response. 

The cardinal held up a hand to bid him listen once more without interrupting, but it was unnecessary: Treville had no words for the cardinal. Yet for once Richelieu's face was devoid of any hint of a smile as he continued: 

"Serving France requires sacrifices, Captain. You knew that before you came here. You know that in the service of the King a soldier's death is only the most common of these sacrifices. Would you have had us watch the duchess being executed and fight a war instead?" 

Treville growled and kept walking just to stop himself from channelling his energies into a more destructive action. 

_The vulture!_ His men's bodies had barely been lowered into the ground and yet the cardinal tried to make him feel disloyal for expressing grief over their deaths. 

"Come, Captain. Easter has just passed. How can you say there is no honour in sacrifice away from the battlefield?" 

"They did not sacrifice themselves!" He could not take anymore of the cardinal's trying to twist his duplicity into something noble. "They were betrayed". By us. _By me_. "And you did not tell me the whole truth!" 

Richelieu rested his head in one hand again and briefly rubbed his brow in annoyance. He looked at Treville with tired, grey eyes, but then his smile returned, sweetly. 

"Do you know the story of Abraham's temptation, Captain?" 

After entrapping him in regular guilt had not worked, was the cardinal now trying religious guilt? What was certain was that Treville did not presently enjoy the patience for mind games. His anger still simmered somewhere beneath his skin, but this last outburst had exhausted him. He felt tired rather than calm. Perhaps he should have left this argument for the morrow. 

"If you are going to quote scripture at me, I'd like to hear what it has to say about liars first." 

For just a second the cardinal's eyes might have sparkled with mirth. 

"I'll spare you the sermon, but the core of the story is this," he continued, unrattled. "God bid Abraham to sacrifice his only heir, whom he loved, to prove his loyalty – a task wholly abhorrent to him. Yet, he never hesitated and dutifully set out to burn his only child." 

"And God let him burn a lamb instead. What is your point?" 

Treville felt nauseated at the thought that the cardinal would try to take away what remained of his righteous anger with stories. But he could not muster the energy to argue the bible with the cardinal. 

"The point is this: neither Abraham nor Isaac ever questioned what had been asked of them. The follower may not be privy to the bigger picture, but he obeys because he knows nothing is asked of him without good reason. France asks us to sacrifice our sons and who are we to see dishonour in fulfilling one's duty?" 

Treville was not sure whether Richelieu was offering him a way to escape his guilt, or whether the man was literally trying to get away with murder. It was no use either way, because Treville clung to his offended conscience like a drowning sailor to a floating spar. 

"You still misled me." 

The cardinal put his chin in his hands and shrugged. 

"Do you always tell your soldiers everything about a sensitive task, even when that information could prove fatal to the mission? If you say 'yes' I _will_ tell you about what the scripture has to say about liars. You may not have been aware of the bigger picture, but you knew enough to do what your king and country needed you to." Richelieu's smile had returned. "You can rest tonight assured that all these complicated, uncomfortable decisions are being taken care of by greater minds, leaving you to do your humble duty with a clean conscience." 

"Greater minds, like yourself?" 

"Exactly." 

The thought was certainly not going to send any sweet dreams Treville's way. 

But he was also too sick to argue. He had gotten his answer and did not know what to do with it. He had let his indignation show and felt no less hollow for it. There was nothing to do but to leave. Seething but beaten. 

As Treville turned his back on him Richelieu spoke up again. 

"I am going to indulge you, Captain," the cardinal said, but Treville did not turn back around as he walked away. 

"For the sake of the argument, let us presuppose you had no inkling of what was to happen when His Majesty ordered you to pass on the position of your musketeers to Savoy…" 

Treville had just reached the door when Richelieu went for the kill: 

"If you had known they were to be killed, would you have refused your king?"

* * *

Upon leaving the cardinal Treville had fled back into his office and buried his shame in his work. Luckily twenty dead musketeers created hearse loads full of paperwork and enough opportunities to wallow in guilt and self-pity. He had hoped that Aramis' recovery would take care of both, but unfortunately it only got rid of the latter and left the former intact. Convincing yourself that doing what one believed to be amoral could still mean doing what was right was hard when the walking dead were sitting on your doorstep. 

The cardinal's stories had done nothing to alleviate his guilt. If there had been a ram waiting for him in the brush he had burnt it along with the child. 

Aramis was back on his feet, physically able to do his job, but that twisted stare had not left him. Occasionally Treville would look down into the courtyard and see Aramis just standing there, alone, unresponsive to whatever might be going on around him, as he was gazing into empty space. Looking as if he were miles away, seeing something only his inner eye could see. As if he were looking with the eyes of the dead down a road that lead from nowhere to nowhere. 

It was at times like these that Treville wondered how long it would take before he would be burying this young man too. Eventually Treville had seen the chance and put him with Porthos. Guard duty, patrol, training, everything. Porthos, a relatively new recruit, needed a more experienced hand to guide him. Not just in soldiering but in matters of class as well, since the king's guards were expected to live up to certain gentlemanly standards. Aramis in turn needed lively company to distract him and shake him out of his dead-eyed daze. And company did not come more lively and distracting than Porthos. 

Fortunately, Aramis had found himself unable to resist the unusual musketeer's loud, outgoing nature while Porthos in turn exhibited an immense appetite for learning. They had taken to each other almost instantly. Eventually Treville did no longer have to draw up a duty roster to push them towards each other. They would always stick together anyway. 

Gradually the long, dark stares began to disappear. 

Shortly after, Athos joined with his stony mien, fire in his eyes, and oh-so-eager to lay down his life for king and country. Treville had at once known what to do with him. With his dark, sardonic humour and strong sense of right and wrong he was a perfect match. Soon the pair became a trio and Treville would get used to addressing the three of them as one entity. 

Only then had he been convinced that at least one of the boys he had offered up on the altar of duty was going to live. This was the reward Treville earned for doing his duty blindly, and the price he had to pay for his betrayal: a ghoul that he would always be making up his guilt to, and a talisman that would forever appeal to his morality. 

There were complaints about the three of them on occasion. They came slightly more regularly and proved slightly more eyebrow-raising than for the rest of the regiment, but nothing too out of sorts for soldiers. Despite their failings they were some of the best men he had ever trained. Richelieu would be the one to complain most often, but although Treville knew he had created a perfect storm, he did not care. That was the price the cardinal would have to pay. The thirty pieces of silver he owed Treville.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to ponygirl72 for offering her beta reading skills and spotting errors like mules turning into horses!
> 
> Notes on chapter 1: 
> 
> Regarding the timeframe of this story: I am trying to balance both what sounds plausible and what best serves the narrative rather than what would be 100% realistic or historically accurate (e. g. I will not have horses cross 300-something kilometres of difficult terrain in winter in two days' time, but I will also not work in every point characters stopped or changed horses into the story, nor will I guarantee that my estimates for travelled distances/time make more sense than anybody else's). I do hope I found the right balance, but if I made a gross mistake that completely shatters suspension of disbelief I will gladly take and try to work in corrections.
> 
> The musketeers will join us next chapter.


	2. The Congregation

### Part II – The Congregation

**28th of March, 1627. Palm Sunday**

Even had they not hailed him to catch his attention Treville would have spotted them coming. He doubted they were even capable of following someone unobtrusively. Truly there were few things in the world less conspicuous than a trio of the king's musketeers even out of their flashy parade uniforms. 

Treville had not been on the road more than a couple of hours when they had first appeared on the horizon. So much for travelling light and moving quickly! He had intended to visit his recently widowed sister's home. Poor, ailing Henriette! He had taken nothing but light baggage and a servant, hoping to be able to take care of any household affairs that he could bring in order on such a short notice, and be back in Paris in time to take care of the Easter procession at the end of the week. Yet now it appeared that work would not let him have a break. 

He was not at all surprised to see who exactly it was that had caught up to him, for of course it was all three of them. Aramis, Athos and Porthos. People had begun to call them 'the Inseparables' for a reason. Where one of them went the others would follow, and be it to the gates of hell – or, which he thought more likely, to a prison cell and _then_ to hell, if they kept stepping on the cardinal's toes on a regular basis. And now they had somehow ended up following each other in order to follow their captain, despite being on leave. 

He loved them like sons; yet, Aramis especially was the last person he wanted about him right now. But of course Fate would send the young man to him, just to remind him. Treville wondered briefly if Easter from now on would keep on bringing back wonderful memories: Since he had taken over the duties of captain of the King's very own Musketeers the only other Holy Week during which he had been absent from Paris had been the one he had spent rushing out to Savoy against all good sense and fetched home the bodies of twenty murdered musketeers, and one very pitiable young Aramis. 

It was no wonder Treville wasn't too keen on finding himself being hailed by the very same man and his inevitable friends. As if he didn't have enough to weigh on his conscience, what with a sick sister, the preparations for the Easter holiday processions looming, and, well, the memories. 

But nevertheless here they were approaching their captain and his servant who had stopped in the road to wait for them: The reformed thief who was still a rogue, the Comte who pretended he had no past, and Treville's own ghoulish talisman. Their big, black horses snorted, when the three reined them in, the animals' flanks steaming in the fresh spring air, wet from sweat and flecks of foamy spittle. Of course, they must have ridden hard to overtake him, since Treville had not set an easy pace. Yet, the musketeers had not even the good graces to look apologetic about interrupting their captain's very private, very urgent journey. 

In fact, instead of apologetic they rather unsettlingly managed to look relieved and worried at the same time, and Treville knew things were going to become complicated once more. 

"I thought I had put you three on leave." 

As usually it was Athos with his natural nonchalance who took it upon himself to defend the group in front of their commander. 

"Pardon the inconvenience, Captain, but we do believe it is for the best if we reschedule our holiday." 

This surprised Treville, but not as much as the man's next line: 

"Information has come to light that suggests there will be an attempt made on your life." 

"On my life?" 

"We're afraid so, sir." 

Treville took a moment to digest this information, or at least he attempted to. 

"And your reaction to this is to follow me? Did you tell anyone?" 

"We thought it best to waste no time before riding out to warn you, sir, not knowing when the assassins would strike." 

"You three…" Treville did not know whether he should rebuke or commend them. "Rushing headlong to my rescue was the wisest thing you could think of? You may be on leave, but that is no reason to take leave of your senses as well." Chastising them was not entirely fair, especially as they had delayed their well-deserved holiday meaning to save their captain's life. But it needed to be done. 

The three of them took the admonishment in their stride. They could tell he was not actually upset at them, but teasing them as a matter of form. 

"How did you learn about all this?" 

"The man who brought you that letter this morning, Captain", explained Porthos, frowning around the words as he spoke, as if once uttered they left something distasteful in his mouth. "Recognised him right away when we found him, still had his livery on. Happened to sit in a tavern talking to someone about the pay that the other man owed him. Probably his contact." 

Aramis took over from there: "It didn't sound like exactly your average Christian business transaction, Captain. So under the circumstances, realising who he was we thought it prudent to ask him to step out of the establishment so we could have a chat." 

"It appears he had quite a need for drink and so early in the day", Athos said. "From his own explanation he had gone to the tavern straight after delivering your letter and stayed there until we found him. Which was around ten o'clock. Likely it simply took that long for his contact to show up." 

"Where is this man now?" 

"As we thought it best to hurry after you as quickly as possible we left him with a patrol of Red Guards." 

"And the man the servant had been talking too?" 

Aramis shook his head. "Lost him." 

Well, if the Red Guards had managed to lock up the servant properly there was a good chance they would still be able to find out about the mystery man's identity. If … It was not a thought he liked, but if pressed Treville had to admit that he only trusted the cardinal and his guard as far as he could throw them. With both hands tied behind his back. 

It had indeed been a letter that had sent Treville rushing from Paris to Chartres. He had just signed the necessary papers that allowed leave to Athos, Porthos and Aramis, and had in fact just been handing them over to the men, when one of his sister's servants had been announced who had expressed an urgent need to see him. 

Treville had sent the trio on their merry ways to read the letter the footman had brought in private. But of course the three of them would have taken close notice of the man they had left their captain alone with. Even though he had been only a servant. Once again the realisation ghosted through his mind what diligent soldiers he was blessed with, before he turned his thoughts back to the matter at hand. 

The letter had been delivered by Henriette's footman, telling Treville that his sister had fallen gravely ill, taken by a fever, and that she desperately wished to see him before she likely passed away. 

If everything in that letter was merely a ruse to lure him out onto a lonesome road to be murdered, then Henriette's illness might be an invention as well. The handwriting had looked convincingly familiar enough, but it had been shaky – either from a weakness inflicted by her illness, or as an attempt to disguise a forgery. And there had been the additional note by her maid that had pleaded with him to hurry as his sister's condition had taken a turn for the worse since her writing the letter. No, he corrected himself, the note had _supposedly_ been by her maid, as this woman was someone whose handwriting Treville had never had occasion to study before. 

If it was truly all a lie and he ever saw that footman again who had sworn to him that his sister's condition had been deathly hopeless when he had left her, Treville would have his head. With this in mind he turned to the musketeers who were patiently waiting for some kind of reaction from him. 

"Be that as it may, I will not be returning to Paris yet. I am going to be in Chartres tonight. So what do you gentlemen propose to do?" 

"We accompany you," Athos said, and then quickly added, "if we may, Captain." 

"I would be honoured if you did." And it was the truth. His musketeers, these three in particular, were the most diligent, the most loyal men he could wish for, and he would be damned if he ever forgot how blessed he was to have them. No matter how often he cursed them as rowdy, bibulous or quarrelsome. 

Of course they did not need to know that. They were conceited enough as it was. Hurrying after him without proper sanction or even communicating with any of their own, let alone the palace, was proof of that. 

Aramis eventually tore him out of his reverie: "If we are to continue on we should probably best avoid the main roads, sir." Avoid the roads? If they left the road not only would they have to be more careful with their horses, they would have to take detour after detour and risk losing their way. That would mean delay upon delay, while poor Henriette might be dying. Then again, if the letter had been a forgery Henriette might be well, might not even be expecting him at all… 

It was not a risk he was prepared to take. 

No doubt sensing his hesitation Athos spoke up: "It would be the sensible thing to do." 

"No." Giving in to play hide-and-seek with assassins that might not even exist could never be an option. "Despite what you found out, I've no mind or time for distractions." 

"Of course, sir", Athos said, his face perfectly blank. "After all, it's only a death threat."

* * *

They needed to slow the pace for a while to give the musketeers' horses a chance to catch their breath. It was the only reason why, for a moment, Treville regretted having allowed them to come along. 

Whether or not his musketeers regretted his decision they at least were not particularly fond of the idea that they would have to stay on the road. Aramis and Athos had gone so far as to call it madness while Porthos had at first tried to reason with him, before withdrawing from the argument entirely. As the conversation continued without him the big man looked on, visibly uncomfortable. But their captain would not budge one inch. In the end Treville had given them the option to either follow him or turn back, and the latter had ultimately appeared to them the greater madness. 

When he had left the garrison that day Treville had told none of his soldiers where he was headed and why. It was one of the prerogatives of being an officer not to have to explain yourself, but usually he preferred to tell the musketeers precisely what they were about to do or for what reason. Not only did it lead to a closer relationship between soldiers and officer that enabled the musketeers to work with him rather than for him, it also encouraged them to trust him with matters they would otherwise keep to themselves. 

Yet in this particular case he had offered no explanation to Athos, Porthos and Aramis, not even for why he insisted on staying on the road. 

Why was he so reluctant to tell them he had a very good reason for acting like he did? For it was a good reason, one they would accept readily. But the fact remained he should not have to explain himself. He was their captain. They were already being far too familiar with him; evidenced by their questioning his decision and in front of his servant, too. It was one thing to allow questions when he himself offered to discuss about a mission freely, especially when those questions enabled the mission to go off without a hitch. But once the captain decided to withhold an explanation his soldiers needed to respect the decision. 

Then again, none of them were actually on duty right now. The three could simply have left the matter to the Red Guards or their on-duty brethren. But no, they had ridden out for him, because they cared about him beyond any obligations dictated by the chain of command. Accordingly they deserved to know why he insisted on placing his life and in extension their lives at risk by not even attempting to shake off pursuers or avoid ambushers lying in wait. 

So why had he not told them yet? The answer was simple: Telling them where he was going and how he was so worried about his sister that he would rather risk being assassinated than delayed meant laying his soul bare. It meant confronting them not as their commanding officer, but as their commanding officer who was also a human being, who right now was sick with worry and fear. For a myriad of reasons it sounded like a terrible idea. 

His stream of consciousness brought him back to Henriette. Treville rarely found the time to visit. Even though Chartres was hardly a day's ride from Paris even at a more leisurely pace they saw each other only sparely and corresponded through letters instead. Treville and his sister had never been the closest siblings anyone could imagine. For one thing Henriette was a good deal younger than him, which had caused him to regard her more in a parental way than as a comrade in arms even when they both had been children. But it also explained why he had always felt so protective of her. 

And he enjoyed writing to her. Her letters always managed to bring a smile to his lips. They made him not feel so removed from home, despite the fact that neither of them had been living in Gascony for over a decade. Especially since he had become captain of the king's musketeers he often found himself in a both demanding and lonely situation at court, without much moral support, owing partly to the fact that he had never married. Contact with Henriette did a lot to alleviate that situation. Treville delighted in reading her detailed accounts and analyses of her friends, neighbours and her late husband's business partners. And he loved hearing about his niece and nephew, Jeanne and Louis-Charles: A girl and a boy of four and six respectively, who might be orphans soon, not even a year after having lost their father. Most likely they would end up the wards of one of his father's relations, people whom Treville hardly knew of and had never met in person. 

It did not bear thinking about. Eventually the sound of Porthos whistling a new tune drew him back into the present. 

Porthos presently brought up the rear, riding a couple of paces behind even Treville's servant, Girard. The big musketeer had taken to whistling to alleviate the tedium of the road and the gloomy dullness of his travelling companions. From time to time, when they slowed down to a leisurely trot he even made his horse prance. Porthos insisted that the creature had some Spanish blood in it, which made it so eager to show off and learn new tricks. But Treville knew that this show of boredom was all pretence. Or at least that it did not keep him from being as vigilant as his brothers in arms. 

The road to Chartres could not be considered a particularly lonely one. They passed settlements and farmsteads constantly. There were a dozen relay stations along the way. But every traveller they encountered made Treville's escort straighten their backs and draw just that little bit closer. Every little wood they happened to pass saw the musketeers ghost their fingers over the butts of their guns. Hours went by in that fashion as the road unwinding before them took on every shape from paved highways to tightly packed dirt paths. 

As they had ridden on and midday turned into afternoon the mood between them warmed up. It was the only thing to warm as the day passed away. It might have been spring, but the weather had not realised this blissful fact yet: It was dry but a chill hung in the air, as if in northern France the campaign for spring to wrestle dominance over the climate from a rainy winter was still in full swing. 

Yet this meteorological struggle did not keep nature from straining to defy Treville's overall dark mood: All day the sun fought bravely against tufts of clouds to shine on them innocuously; and those trees that were yet to break into full bloom were already green and budding, not to be outclassed for long by their bright cousins. A farmhouse looking as if it aspired to become the subject of many a piece of pastoral poetry stood at the edge of a low field of deep emerald that moved in the light breeze. In this Arcadia, this sea of colour, unfazed by the approaching soldiers, birds sang out their mating calls, and Treville swore to himself that should a happy, fat rabbit cross their path, twitching its nose and enjoying the parting of winter, they would have it for dinner. 

But for the chill air this display of life made it hard to believe that assassins might be about. 

Still just in case Aramis was at the very moment riding ahead, out of sight, scouting. Treville was glad of it. An important task like this kept him focused, and by God, the young man needed it. He had been jittery from the beginning of their journey, eying the woods they passed through as if the trees unsettled him. Whenever he rode with them Treville thought Aramis kept throwing him looks, as if he meant to catch his eye in order to talk to him. But he never did and Treville never pressed. Whatever it was, Treville doubted it was conversation for the road. 

Girard meanwhile had put on a neutral expression, but Treville could tell by the hunch of his shoulders and how stiff he held himself in the saddle that he was not happy. During the years in Treville's service the man had proven himself imperturbable during many a household crisis. It was the reason – in addition to Girard being a decent rider – why Treville had chosen him to take with him on this journey. But the arrival of the musketeers had unnerved the servant and their bad news could not have helped. 

If there was one group of people into whom an escort of musketeers did not instil a sense of awe and security it would have to be the servants of their commander. They had too often been witness to these illustrious soldiers leaving their master's quarters with their proverbial tails tucked between their legs for an all too colourful spectrum of reasons – illegal duelling, drunkenness, brawling, whoring, carelessness, plain dereliction of duty. None of which marked the regiment as elite and as dependable as they liked to be seen, and all of which left their master hoarse from shouting. 

Had the situation been less serious, Treville would not have been able to suppress a smile at his discomfort. 

Athos, finally, rode on Treville's left flank. He was alert but not so taken up by his watching the sides of the road for attackers that they could not carry on a light conversation. Even though neither of them had anything of substance to say. Athos was his usual withdrawn self, out of habit, not impoliteness, keeping his side of the conversation to random observations mostly. Meanwhile Treville's own thoughts kept ghosting back to Henriette, the one topic he wished to converse about the least at the moment. But he was thankful for any remark from Athos that distracted him from his worry. If the man was still upset about their argument about whether or not to stick the main roads, like a proper soldier he did not let it show. 

Yet he had every right to be upset.

 

By and by the afternoon sun was joined by clouds, the birds fell silent, and as they came by a little wood the environment took on a more fitting, threatening appearance. They had all watched the steady rise of the earth and the thick brushwork around them until they were surrounded by it on one side as if passing through a hollow way: A lightless cage under a verdant roof. This raised undergrowth sat to their left like a thorny wall allowing no human eye to penetrate its dark mass. To the other side of the road the ground fell away in a steep decline, resulting in a ravine that promised to break any horse's legs. 

It was at that point that Aramis returned to them having nothing much to report except that ahead the road conditions did not improve and sight only grew worse. But there was nothing to be done about it now. Clearly Aramis had rejoined them less to share information and more out of a hunch that his sword arm might be needed soon. 

Was Treville mad to continue? Irresponsible? 

It was one thing to risk one's own life like this, dashing off, not even attempting to take a different route to dissuade potential assassins. But, to endanger others? Yes, the three of them were soldiers, but they were not supposed to be here. They were on leave, and they had warned him not to stick to the road. 

If any of his musketeers died on this journey it would be because they had followed his orders blindly. Again. 

He had not thought this through. He had done what he had believed to be the right thing to do, the right thing for _himself_. Again. 

The group was moving at an easy trot; the better to keep an eye out for any sudden movement and Treville shot a quick glance at Aramis who was steering his horse to overtake Athos on the traitorous road. But the man's expression appeared relaxed; deceptively so, Treville knew. The eerie environment ensured that they all stayed on guard. 

After a quarter of an hour the slope of the ravine and the rise on their other side were gradually becoming softer, shallower again, but it did not cause them to relax. 

They were not surprised when the first shot fell. 

Girard's mule, spooked, took off in a mad gallop. The man's boots almost brushed the flanks of Treville's horse as the animal pushed past and disappeared down the road. Treville's own mount – less fazed by gunshots – twitched, half-turned, and went down. 

Treville immediately rolled away to avoid being crushed should the fallen beast turn over as another shot rang out. Since it was still alive and in pain it was not safe to stay behind its bulky body for cover. But the horse did not even roll onto its back. It merely kicked out, eyes and nostrils wide in fear. 

What now? Attempting a shoot-out in an open road with an unknown number of assailants was suicide. But Treville would be damned if he went out without a fight. 

The musketeers returned fire and as sudden as it had started, all shooting ceased. Treville watched as Porthos foolhardily charged his horse into the brush where he reckoned the shots had come from. Aramis followed closely on his heels. He had left his horse behind, but armed himself with his harquebus. Athos too jumped off his horse and sent it out of harm's way with a slap to its rump, but did not follow after his friends. 

"We need to get off the road, sir. Are you wounded?" 

"No." 

Treville rose to his feet. He was dimly aware of a burning sensation high in his left arm, near the shoulder, but pushed the information into the back of his mind for when he would have time for it. 

"Behind you, Captain!" 

Treville ripped his sword out of its scabbard in a high arc as he turned at Athos' shout to find himself face to face with a man armed with sword and dagger, who advanced to strike. Treville parried the thrust with his own blade and immediately recovered. For a moment both men faced each other in guard positions, just within each other's reach, and then attacked. 

Guard, disengage, thrust, parry, riposte. 

It quickly became clear to Treville that his opponent was a skilled swordsman if not an especially imaginative one. None of what revealed this to him did actually enter his conscious thought, but fed a more subtle intuition that had been honed through countless challenges met and survived. Instinctively it informed his every reaction to his opponent's movements. 

Treville kept him busy with feints and quick counter-attacks but the attacker kept his guard well. The dagger in the man's off-hand moved even more dangerously than his sword, promising to trap the opposing blade between its slanted guard and a vicious, serrated edge. Only a quick disengage prevented it from snapping the tip off of Treville's sword. 

However, the stranger's own attacks lacked finesse and the captain of the musketeers still had one or two tricks up his sleeve. One did not survive to rise to Treville's position when fighting with nothing but your blade and honour. 

Rather than drawing his own dagger, Treville had pulled his riding cloak to one side to quickly wrap it around his left arm with the practiced movements of one hand. The cloak made it easier to disguise his own strikes and when next the attacker stepped in for a straight thrust the heavy garment deflected the blade easily with a sweeping motion. Following the move with his own sword Treville dashed inside and under his opponent's dagger and stabbed. The attacker hopped back just in time to avoid the sword's killing point. 

He disengaged his sword from Treville's cloak to parry a frustrated follow-up strike and, panting, stepped out of reach again. But Treville regained his proper footing and pressed on. 

And found his blade batted away. 

He barely recovered quickly enough to perform a circular parry, knocking the blade thrusting at his face down and away. There was no time for a more effective counter-attack. Instead he stepped back into a low guard position, inviting the lunge attack that followed. 

Treville deflected the thrusting blade with a low outside parry and threw his cloak into the dagger's path. Completing the forward motion of his left hand he stepped in and, grabbing his opponent's sword arm with his free hand for leverage, smashed the pommel of his own sword into his attacker's face. 

The attacker reeled back, knees buckling, blinded for a precious second by pain and blood, and Treville used the opening to gain room to run him clean through. With a choked sob the assassin found himself speared on his opponent's sword, then slumped to the ground as Treville drew the blade back to turn and face the next adversary. 

He unsheathed his parrying dagger at the same time as he recovered his guard, but no other attackers showed themselves. 

Only a few paces from him Athos had just dispatched his own opponent and started heading over to him. 

"Well done, Athos," Treville said and the musketeer responded with a grim nod. 

By that the young man pretended to appear calm and collected, but Treville could tell that underneath his cool demeanour he was still bubbling from his own duel. It was not only the alert shine in Athos' eyes that gave it away. Treville was able to tell by his ready-for-action stance, the almost-ghost of a feral expression on his face, and the rate of his breathing that did not only stem from exertion but excitement. 

Treville knew that Athos' excitement mirrored his own in all the little details. He would be lying if he claimed he did not feel and enjoy the thrill of the fight himself. 

After all he had not won his promotions through idle favouritism, but through distinction in battle, and he could empathise with the theatrics of each of the three young men that accompanied him: with their brashness, their boldness, their derring-do, because at one time he had been them. 

Although he had to admit – and it was not without a sour pang – that right now Athos was the one of them breathing far less harshly. 

Treville had no time to follow this line of thought further when he heard Aramis shout and someone came crashing through the forest from the direction Porthos and Aramis had disappeared in. The man stumbled onto the path as if the hordes of hell were after him. His eyes briefly settled on the two musketeers standing in the road, swords drawn and shining with blood, and quickly found a new target right next to him: Aramis' horse, left behind, had withdrawn to the edge of the tree line like any well-trained charger would: staying near but out of the way. 

Realising what the man intended to do Treville headed for the animal immediately. But at the same time he realised he simply could not possibly be fast enough. He drew his pistol to reload, but did not rate his chances of stopping the man too highly. 

Already the assassin grabbed the reins to which the horse responded only by taking a surprised step back and a whinny that sounded highly indignant to Treville's ears. Then the man swung himself into the saddle and kicked his heels into the animal's flanks to get it moving. 

Aramis was there. The musketeer appeared out of the brush a few feet ahead of horse and rider. He headed for the assassin with a mighty leap down the sloping earth and threw himself at the running horse's reins. 

"Aramis, no!" 

Treville could not help but wince as the horse's broad chest crashed against Aramis' arm. The impact hardly broke its stride. Aramis immediately latched onto the pommel instead, perhaps to grab the assassin in order to try and drag him off, perhaps to keep himself from falling. But he merely succeeded in losing his footing and the startled horse dragging him along. 

Treville could only see this scenario end with Aramis under the horses' powerful hind legs. 

He raised his pistol, aiming at rider and horse, but Athos had been faster to reload. A shot rang out and the mounted assassin straightened his back for a split-second before he collapsed and slumped sideways. His boot brushed Aramis as he slid off the horse and the musketeer finally released or lost his grip. 

Aramis fell into the dust with a yelp while his charger cantered on, its hooves mercifully missing its owner. The animal only stopped when it noticed that its new rider had dropped out of the saddle, lifeless. 

"Aramis!" 

It took Treville a moment to realise he had echoed Athos' shout. Within seconds they were at their fallen comrade's side. Aramis had begun to rise back onto his feet by himself, the front of his clothes stained with dirt, thankfully, not blood. He was groaning through gritted teeth as he straightened himself, but he got up on his own. Athos was there to steady him with a firm grip on his arm as he swayed. 

Treville waited for his breathing to normalise, for his heart to calm down, as he looked the man over. 

At some point Porthos must have returned. He appeared at their side and drew Aramis into his arms before the latter had even a chance to gather himself. 

"Are you hurt?" Treville asked once Porthos had released Aramis from his embrace long enough for them all to see that he had suffered no obvious injuries. Even to Treville's own ears his voice sounded strained and harsh. 

As if through a fog he realised that he had only addressed Aramis and not even considered extending the question to Athos or Porthos. He told himself that it was because he had not seen Athos or Porthos nearly get trampled only moments ago, but the truth was that part of Treville still found it surprising to see the man alive each time he laid eyes on him; _even though it has been two years_. 

Aramis hesitated for a moment as if he were not quite convinced himself of what the answer was to that question, but eventually shook his head. "Only bruised." 

He flexed his wrists and shook his arms out as if to check that they were still working. "Looks like I'm indestructible", he said and smiled a smile that was far too wide to be born out of anything than tension and shock. 

His friends looked like they were going to berate him, but they did not have a chance to utter a word before Treville exploded: 

"What do you think you were doing?" His voice shook and Aramis flinched at the expression on his captain's face. 

"He was getting away! What I—" 

"I don't care! There was no call for that! Did you intend to get trampled?" 

He took a step closer and grabbed Aramis roughly by the shoulders. 

"Never do that again!" Athos and Porthos had turned speechless at this outburst and watched as Aramis shied away as much as the captain's grip allowed him. 

Treville himself felt the shock. Not at the force of his temper – volume and intimidating tone came naturally after a while when you were in command of young musketeers – but at how much he meant every word. He dropped his hands and noticed they were shaking. Despite the anger he felt disturbed at his own reaction. 

"It's not worth it," he finished more quietly and turned away. He walked back over to the corpse of the man he had duelled just to keep moving. 

Behind him he heard Athos addressing Aramis: "Jumping in front of a moving horse is uniquely insane, even from you. Did you come up with that brilliant idea all by yourself?" 

Treville did not hear Aramis reply if he did respond at all, but he recognised Athos' intention to break the awkward tension for what it was and was thankful for it. He needed to take a moment to collect himself. This was no time to get emotional. 

Taking charge again he turned around to face his soldiers and nodded to the man Athos had shot. "See if you can find anything on him that tells us who he might be." 

"And you two", he addressed Porthos and Aramis, "were there any more of them?" 

Porthos nodded. "They're dead." 

"Good. Bring them here and get your horses ready. We need to get moving." 

The two of them set to the task immediately, soon disappearing from view. Most likely they were relieved to be out of sight for a while. 

Treville turned to deal with his own felled opponent and knelt down next to the corpse. He assumed from the man's softly lined face that the assassin had been in his mid- or late twenties, just like his musketeers. Apart from that the face told him nothing. Not only was it an unremarkable face, Treville also noted that it was wholly unknown to him. Next he went through he dead man's belongings, looking for brandings, conspicuous jewellery or hidden pockets within his garments. Anything that might help to identify him. But, to little surprise, the search yielded nothing. 

At least the task had allowed him to calm down and collect his thoughts. He no longer felt like shaking Aramis or, alternatively, throttling him. Or embracing him. 

Both he and Athos had just fruitlessly concluded their searches when Aramis and Porthos showed up again, each of them leading two extra horses onto the road. The four horses that had formerly belonged to their attackers were nimble looking, glossy chestnuts, without the bulk or height of the musketeers' horses. And bundled on top of them were two more dead bodies. 

Porthos indicated one of the corpses with a motion of his head. 

"We found this one crouched in the brush, sir, trying to reload his weapon. The other one had tried to make a run for it, just like the one that ended up in the road. Aramis got him." 

Treville acknowledged the result of their hunt with a nod and an encouraging word. 

"Well done." 

_Of course Aramis got one of them_ , Treville thought. Unfortunately Aramis had only had the one shot left for two bandits, or the little drama just now would have been avoided. The young man was after all more than the heavy stone weighing down his thoughts; he was also a great shot. The best in the regiment. 

Had he been any other of his musketeers, Treville would have felt a wave of fatherly pride wash over him at that thought, yet, with Aramis the realisation remained predictably bitter. 

"Any others?" he asked, meaning to prevent a contemplative silence from lingering. 

Porthos shook his head. "Only the two of them." 

That made five in total and truth to be told: that was bad enough. There was no use in fooling himself for the sake of his own vanity. Even disregarding the fact that their first shots had missed their intended target: after they had killed his horse five young, healthy men striking from cover would most likely have done the job. 

Porthos' continuing report distracted Treville from following that black train of thoughts any further. As it turned out, the corpses that Porthos and Aramis had brought back did show neither identifying markers nor clues to who might have hired them, either. 

"Whoever they were", Porthos remarked, "it's good luck that they could only afford lousy assassins!" 

Aramis could not stifle his laughter at Porthos' accompanying grin. It was a response to the tension they all still felt too deeply and even Athos turned up his lips in a half smile. 

Immediately the three of them shot him a glance, suddenly self-conscious. After all, this was their captain they were talking to, who had almost been assassinated by the men they were now joking about – and who had felt the need to lay into one of their own only minutes before. But Treville was not going to rebuke them, not with the danger just passed. They all needed some levity to wind down. 

"They both had one of these, sir." Aramis, now emphatically sober, passed him the gun he had carried out of the woods in addition to his light harquebus. It was a rifle. 

"The true weapon of a sharpshooter", Treville remarked, weighing the gun in his hands. "Or an assassin." No wonder the fire fight had been brief if their attackers had relied upon these cumbersome things. Rifles were believed to be more accurate than the more common smoothbore firearms, true, but they also took hellishly long to reload. Unless you wished to risk them exploding in your face. 

All of a sudden Treville remembered his own burning shoulder. He had probably bruised it when his horse had fallen. But when he checked his hand came away bloody. Seeing his own blood somehow intensified the pain that shot through his arm to a noticeable level. 

The fabric of his sleeve had been ripped open by a narrow tear. No blood yet showed on the outside of his jacket, but that was no wonder: leather was hardly likely to soak through from such a scratch. If he recalled the fight correctly the assassins had fired at least three balls from their rifles: One ball had apparently nicked his arm. The other two had done for his horse. 

What a fortunate bastard he was. 

"I see we all got trough this uninjured", he said dryly, "apart from me". 

The comment was not taken quite as flippantly as it had been intended. Treville immediately felt sorry for attempting to make light of the situation as he saw the distraught faces of his musketeers. Here was Aramis, immediately asking to see the wound, offering to stitch it up, his own bruises forgotten. Athos inquired after the nature of his injury, frowning slightly more sternly than usual, which was enough to betray honest worry, while Porthos looked openly upset. 

Luckily Girard chose that moment to return, leading his mule by the bridle. He looked stricken and immediately began begging forgiveness for having let his mule carry him off. Treville waved his apologies aside and suggested the man make it up to him by patching up his master. It was a task Girard saw to diligently, jealously watched over by the three musketeers. 

There was not much to patch up Treville noticed. He had suffered a shallow abrasion that bled but did not need any stitching. After that was dealt with they could see to taking up their journey again as quickly as possible. 

The assassins' horses looked fresh enough. They could use them to transport the bodies, since, as the king's men, they could not possibly leave them lying in the road to be feasted on by crows – _like dead musketeers_. It would also be most unchristian of them. No, they would hand them over to the local authorities and hope not to be delayed in their journey by bureaucracy. 

As luck would have it the brigade of the maréchaussée that policed the roads in the region operated out of Chartres. The musketeers would not even have to make much of a detour to pay them a visit, which was fortunate. 

The extra horses with their morbid burdens would slow them down, but it was not far to Chartres now and the conscientiousness with which his musketeers had put their life at risk to protect him reminded him that at least trying to solve this mystery should be considered desirable by a sound mind. 

And of course, Treville would need one of the assassin's horses for his own transportation. Somewhat regretfully he looked back to where his own mount lay on the ground: The big grey body lay still. All life had already left the beast, carried away by the dark blood that seeped steadily out of the wound in its neck. It must have died a while ago, having bled out during the fight without anyone taking notice. 

Rather than take one of the dark steeds the regiment had adopted recently as their distinctive mounts, Treville had chosen a grey Breton horse for his journey. A strong galloper with iron endurance the animal had been a gift from the King as it had reminded Louis of a medieval knight's white stallion. What an ignoble end for the tough creature that had served him so well. 

Still, there was nothing to be done about it. There were more horses in the king's stables. And yet, Treville inexplicably felt melancholic just looking at the slain beast with its snowy coat stained and discoloured by gore. 

Treville shook himself. They needed to get back onto the road. Not wasting any more time he ordered the musketeers to prepare the bodies for transport. 

Luckily the assassins' mounts proved to be steady animals. They were little concerned by the smell of blood emanating from the bodies that were strapped to their backs by Porthos and Girard in such a way that their dead weight would impede the animals' movements as little as possible. 

Treville was about to order the others to mount, when Athos appeared at his side. 

"Have you any idea who sent these men, Captain?" 

Treville blinked at him, completely thrown off by the question. To him the whole incident was a merely a distraction from much more important matters. The fact that someone intended to kill him and might even try to do so again appeared strangely surreal and insignificant compared to the reason for his journey. Beyond the immediately obvious like searching the corpses and making sure the bodies would be taken care of the hows and whys of the assassination attempt mattered to him little at this moment. 

At least his musketeers were concerned in his stead. 

Not receiving an answer Athos rephrased his question: "Is there anyone who might wish you harm?" 

_In a more general sense or recently?_

Treville barely kept himself from grimacing as he bit back his reply. 

It was impossible to climb the social ladder and not annoy somebody. It was just as impossible to be a part of the French court and not draw someone's wrath or jealousies upon oneself. He did not cherish various implications connected with it, but the fact remained that he was in many ways the third man of the state. Additionally, of course, the duties of a captain of the king's musketeers included a number of tasks that did no particularly endear one to people; like arresting and whisking away their friends and family members to spend the rest of their days in the dreary dungeons of the Bastille. 

But out loud he said: "I can't think of anyone in specific who would go to these lengths." 

It was the truth. Either intercepting or fabricating a letter by his sister took planning. On top of that finding four young men desperate enough for this kind of job could not have been easy or cheap. At least Treville hoped that was the case. 

He did not know whether he expected his musketeers to simply drop the matter when their captain did not prove to be more forthcoming. What he did not expect was for Aramis of all people to pick up the conversation. 

"Does," he hesitated, "does the name of de Boussand sound at all familiar to you?" Both his friends shot him an enquiring look. Porthos' eyebrows almost disappeared up into his hairline in surprise. But Aramis ignored them, facing Treville squarely as he spoke more confidently: "A nobleman of Graçay perhaps?" 

Treville took a moment to think. He was too perplexed by this sudden concreteness of Aramis' request to nuzzle his memory in any effective manner. _Graçay?_

Meanwhile Athos' astonishment turned into a frown: "Arnaud de Boussand? The Vicomte de Graçay?" 

The current Vicomte de Graçay certainly was not one of the nobles seen frequently at court; otherwise Treville would not have needed the prompting from Athos to remember him. But the name did stir up an impulse in his mind and it was not connected with all too happy sentiments. 

And something was not quite right about the given name. _Oh!_

"Where did you hear of that name, Aramis?" he asked. 

"The servant who delivered your letter mentioned it to his contact." 

Porthos put down a heavy hand onto Aramis' shoulder. "Why didn't you say so when we questioned the guy?" 

Aramis shook him off by crossing his arms in front of his chest and taking a step back. He was clearly fed up with being shouted at. 

"I didn't remember!" he snapped. "I didn't realise what I had heard until now." 

Treville saw Porthos angle his head to catch Aramis' eye, a grave look on his face, but the big musketeer did not say anything more. He did not need to. Treville shared his worries: Aramis had not been himself all day. This level of absent-mindedness was atypical for him, but it was neither the time nor the place to address it. 

"Are you certain it was the servant who mentioned it?" 

"Either the servant or the man he talked to", Aramis said, his expression neutral. But the curtness and the defensive tone of his response betrayed the agitation he felt at being interrogated. 

Treville suppressed a sigh. "I need you to be sure it was one of them because these are very serious allegations." 

Aramis squared his jaw, but had nothing more to say. 

Athos stepped up, wearing his usual serious expression. "You recognise the name, Captain?" 

"I have never met the man in person, but I knew his son. He served under my command briefly. That was before the musketeers." Henri. _His name was Henri._ "He was killed in action years ago." 

It took no conscious effort to recall the bare facts. The memories came to him on their own, one after the other. Yet the scenery that unfolded before his mind's eye was missing outlines and clear shapes, like runny water colours: 

"We were riding to relieve a fort our forces had taken earlier in the campaign." 

It had been late in summer. The defenders had held out a whole week against a much larger besieging army. The pressure to reach them before their resources gave out had been enormous. 

Treville had to grimace as he realised the fort had been located in the Italian Alps. It appeared mountain ranges could haunt you just much as people. "De Boussand volunteered to lead a charge on the enemy's flank. The attack was a success, but he was hit in the throat by a musket ball." 

He could not even remember what the young nobleman had looked like. The only image that would form for him, blurred through the prism of time, was again lacking distinct features: a young soldier, smiling but ultimately faceless. 

"I cannot imagine what reason his father could have to want to assassinate me." 

But then, reason and grief seldom went together. Still, it had been years ago… 

"It need not have anything to do with his son", Athos offered. 

"There is no other connection." 

"Even so, you must have an idea who might have sent the assassins? Or why?" 

Treville did not miss the look that passed between the three musketeers before Athos spoke again: 

"Could this attack have anything to do with why we are hurrying to Chartres?" 

Smooth, reserved Athos possessed this uncanny ability to reduce an issue to its core in a way that remained polite on all the surface layers that mattered in refined society. Treville felt like he should be angry that Athos had picked up their previous argument again in such an underhanded manner. And yet this was a golden opportunity for Treville: Nothing like cold steel and a little bloodshed to make you come to your senses. 

They should not be here with him. They should not be his escort. But they were. None of this should be their business. But it was. 

"I feel I owe you an explanation, gentlemen." 

This got their attention. Treville would have to do his best to remain stoic in their eyes as he explained. So he put on his best impassive face as he continued: 

"We are going to Chartres to see my sister." 

This they had not expected and for once their surprise left their expressions so unguarded that Treville could read their thoughts as they were written on their faces: _Your sister?_

They quickly put one and one together: "And we hurry …" 

They did not need any more hints. He had trained sharp men. 

"Is she sick? Forgive me—" 

Athos clearly felt he was overstepping a line, but it did not matter to Treville. 

"She is dying." 

That shut them up again. 

"At least that is what the letter said her footman delivered to me. The one you arrested." 

"Sir, if the letter was intended to lure you into an ambush…" 

"It might all be a forgery", Porthos finished. "Your sister might be well." 

Treville was not sure if that was supposed to comfort him, but very likely neither was Porthos. 

"Yes", he simply said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As far as I can tell the King's Musketeers didn't actually ride all black horses until much, much later, and even then it was only the case for one of the regiments. But as the show, like many adaptations of the books, appears to be mostly rolling with the musketeer horses = black aesthetic so am I.


	3. The Priest

### Part III – The Priest

**28th of March, 1627. Palm Sunday, evening**

One thing they could all agree on as they continued their journey was that there would be no more scouting from Aramis. The musketeer in question had accepted the decision by putting on a neutral mien and shrugging. What good was an outrider anyway if certain people chose to ignore any and all advice? 

Still he had been allowed to move his horse to lead their little column, enabling the captain to keep an eye on him. He rode in front of Treville while Athos, Porthos and Girard followed behind, leading the remaining horses, all of which now carried dead assassins tied to their saddles. 

Treville could not deny the unease that Aramis set stirring deep in inside his guts. Somewhere between noontime and the present the young man had apparently thought better of trying to catch Treville's attention. He had been convinced that Aramis had intended to talk to him earlier in the day, but the musketeer had stopped throwing his captain any more ominous looks. Instead he sat quietly as he rode, concentrating on the road ahead. It seemed the burden that depressed Aramis had not become lighter since the morning. Not even Porthos taking up whistling again could elicit a response out of him. The only straying glances he allowed himself were directed at the environment; at the trees he had gone back to watching. 

Seeing the man who was usually so full of life so quiet and dull felt wrong, like hearing a familiar tune for the first time played in minor keys. 

A preoccupation with his own dark thoughts was the only reason he decided not to press the matter Treville told himself. 

The melancholy sight before him lured him down private paths of morbidity: here he was riding a dead man's horse, on a journey to visit his sister who might or might not lie dying at this vey moment.

* * *

The rest of their journey to Chartres passed uneventfully. When they arrived their first action was to get rid of the dead bodies. It was out of necessity: not just because Treville refused to bring corpses to his sister's sickbed, but also because the city guard proved immensely interested in them. 

Intimidated by Treville's rank the officer in charge of the local force of the maréchaussée meant to refer them to his direct superior stationed in a different arrondissement but Treville would not have it. There would be no more delays. They would visit Henriette, do what had to be done, what could be done, and then ride straight back to Paris where Treville had a job to do. One thing that Treville had learned in his service was that you only had to appear authoritative enough even in places you did not belong and people would listen to you without asking too many questions. Accordingly the officer yielded his protests quickly. 

After all of this would be dealt with and once they had returned to the capitol the officer might ask again if the captain would aid their investigations. However, right now Treville could not care less about any plots to kill him, even if the cardinal himself were to come after him with a rusty meat cleaver. 

When they finally left Treville breathed a sigh of relief. The whole affair – ambush, assassins and all – ceased to exist for Treville as they abandoned their morbid charges and once more headed for their original objective. It was still light as they reached Henriette's residence. 

Long, rectangular windows, the frames painted white, greeted them set in a façade that exuded a distinct antique flourish. The dark roofs of the building's wings slanted like those of a Greek or Roman temple. The changing sky, earliest harbinger of evening, painted the sandy grey stones of the walls in warm colours. But the welcoming effect thus created was lost on Treville, whose sense of apprehension the play of colours could not alleviate. 

For all the haste that they had practiced to get here Treville now had the distinct impression of his limbs having turned to lead, refusing to move, as he dismounted inside the courtyard. He knew, as he turned his gaze on the familiar front of the building, that the sudden torpid sensation in his legs was not at all connected to exhaustion after a day spent on the road. 

At least his sister's servants recognised him at once. They were bid to wait in the parlour while the mistress of the house was informed of their arrival. This must be a good sign, Treville thought. If his sister's condition had been desperate surely he would have received a different welcome. Instead it appeared as though he had not even been expected; despite the urgent sounding letter. 

Yet Treville could hardly keep himself from pacing as he waited. As he walked the length of the room the warmth of the parlour stung the bare skin of his face, which had been benumbed by cold after a day spent outside in the chilly spring air. Sitting down never entered his mind no matter how inviting the upholstery looked. 

Finally the door opened. Treville froze on the spot as his sister entered. 

"Now this is a surprise I did not expect," she said, beaming. 

"Henriette." 

He managed little more than her name in greeting before she strode over to him and kissed his cheeks. It was hardly the kind of reception one expected of a dying sister! Her warm touch broke the ice that had held him fast and he hugged her to his chest. There was no one around who would take offense. 

Treville released her from his embrace only to look her over. His sister had changed since he had last seen her: her hair was still auburn, her light blue eyes still of the same hue as his own, and her face as triangular as a cat's as it had ever been. But her healthy, round figure had slimmed since last he saw her. Her complexion was more ashen than he remembered. If she was not sick now, she had been, and recently. 

Yet she showed no sign of ill health in her manner. Instead her smile broadened when she looked around her brother and set eyes on the musketeers standing behind him: 

"And I see you brought some of your dashing young men!" 

Only now did Treville become aware again of the men surrounding him. They had followed him inside, but had remained silent, politely waiting to be addressed or dismissed. Perhaps they did not even suspect that as soon as he had dismounted his mind had abandoned them in the courtyard with the horses – which he had not yet ordered to be stabled, Treville realised absent-mindedly. 

"Are you going to introduce me to your companions?" 

"Of course", he said, somewhat perplexed. His actions appeared sluggish to him, as if his body were still caught up in processing that the danger had passed. Relief benumbed him more than his worry had. 

His men saved him from his scattered mind as they stepped up to be presented while their captain still fumbled with clearing his thoughts. 

The King's musketeers were gentlemen, whether born or adopted into this lofty status, and never out of place in a gentle home. And so Treville introduced the Messieurs Athos, Porthos and Aramis, heedful of the fact that Athos insisted on being introduced only with his nom de guerre. A twitching of the corners of her mouth betrayed the pleasure Henriette experienced at being introduced to a man with such an added aura of mystery. She fluttered her fan much like a girl ten years her junior to hide the sudden blush on her cheeks. 

"I am still a bit shaky on my feet", she explained and bid them to sit down in the half-circle of upholstered furniture arranged around the small round table in the middle of the room. 

"If you'd prefer we rent a room in town–" 

"No!" Henriette shot Treville a stern look that made him blink. 

"I can still be a hostess in my own home to my own brother! And what do I pay my servants for?" 

"We would be honoured to stay at your house, Madame", Athos cut in and Henriette's eyes lit up with delight. 

"Let it not be said that I am not glad to see you," she said, touching the armrest of Treville's chair, "but what brought you here in such a hurry?" Treville wished he had something to drink so he could have wasted time taking by a sip while considering his answer. 

"I received a letter saying you had taken ill." 

Henriette stared at him before again breaking into her customary wide smile. 

"You silly man! When I wrote that I did not expect it would send you riding over!" She forced a more neutral expression onto her face, as she continued: "Good to know. The next time I can't prise you loose away from Paris I will simply invent an illness." 

Treville was glad to be seated. At the thought dizziness swept his mind. Henriette immediately grabbed his hands. "I'm sorry. How tasteless of me." 

Her brother took a deep breath. They did not need a repeat of him letting his temper get the better of him like with Aramis. 

"Never do that", Treville said, but his voice was soft. 

He was not keen on ever being put through a similar experience again even if he found a healthy sister at the end of his journey every time. But he would not reprimand her, not here, not now, and not least because he clearly felt his own guilt nagging at the back of his mind. It was true that he rarely took the time to visit his family and if he had not thought her condition serious he would not have found it within his conscience to leave the court at this time of the year. Thus he would not begrudge her this teasing. 

"Forgive me. You've gone all pale", Henriette said. "But you deserve a bit of chastisement. We hardly see you." 

Treville sighed. Stalling for an answer he threw a quick glance at his musketeers. 

They looked on politely disinterested but Treville bet they had their ears perked. He would have in their situation. It was not everyday they saw their commander receive a dressing-down rather than giving one. 

"The king keeps me occupied and the musketeers test my strength." 

Henriette glanced at them. "Of course, they look like right devils." 

Since they were being talked about Athos took the opportunity to cut in: "So you were ill, Madame?" 

Perhaps misinterpreting the serious look on Athos' face she smiled at him: "There is no need for you to worry. I am well on my way to recovery. I'd merely caught a cough. I wouldn't even call it a fever. It was nothing to worry about." She turned a strict look back onto Treville. "As I wrote to you." Her intense gaze made it strikingly clear that she now doubted he had ever read her letter and Treville could tell they were going to have a tricky conversation in the near future. He only hoped Henriette would for once be thoughtful enough for them to have it without his musketeers within earshot. 

Then her accusing stare turned into an earnest, brow-wrinkling frown: 

"What happened to your arm?" He had forgotten about the wound. Well, less about the wound itself, since it still burnt from time to time when he moved his arm. But he had forgotten about the ruined sleeve and how visible the damage must be. "It's nothing. My horse slipped and I fell off." Once again the three musketeers kept their faces blank. His heart grew at the sight. Henriette drew her mouth into a thin line as she studied her brother unhappily but did not point out the lie. 

"It was thoughtful of you to come, but I didn't intend to make you worry. I merely complained that I was lonely, because I had to send Jeanne and Louis-Charles to their cousin as a precaution." Her face darkened and the set of her jaw betrayed that her frown was in earnest this time. "You know how fragile the health of young children can be." 

Treville was hardly going to fault her for being overcautious with her children especially so shortly after losing her husband to an illness. Henriette had married a wealthy merchant's heir, Bernard Chabot, whose family had been ennobled only mere months before vows were exchanged. But neither wealth nor title had saved Bernard from dying of a fever on his way to inspect his properties in New France just under a year ago. 

Now that she was better Henriette explained that she expected her children back in time for Easter, but until then the place was gloomier for their absence. As if to steel herself against further dark thoughts she squared her shoulders and then switched to a subject that was bound to raise their spirits: 

"I assume you haven't stopped to have dinner on your way here?" 

Indeed they had not stopped to eat all day. The musketeers, not having expected to go on a journey, had been even less prepared than Treville and his servant. They had had only a flask of wine on them per man. 

So it was no surprise when the three looked up with hope shining on their faces as Treville explained their situation. Upon hearing of the musketeers' plight his sister put on a sympathetic face, blue eyes round and soulful, which made him feel as if he had been cast in the role of the wicked stepmother who planned to starve her children. He had to put down the ridiculous urge to point out that he did not usually send out his soldiers without provisions. 

"It's no trouble ", Henriette said eventually. She had stopped looking at the men like they were hungry puppies and instead leant back into the cushions with a pleased look on her face at the prospect of having company for dinner. 

"I'll have the cook prepare enough for all of us, it is Sunday after all."

* * *

The time waiting for dinner to be served was spend with anecdotes about the children and Henriette trying to weasel out of Athos which family and province he heralded from – without success. It made Treville remember that apart from a liking for music and food – not unusual in a born Gascon – Henriette also fancied a pretty uniform cloak, which was part of the reason why her marriage to Bernard had been something of a surprise at the time. 

Apart from the fact that they had been in the saddle all day and not eaten since morning and that now they had to be careful not to stuff themselves too fast the meal itself proved an uncomplicated affair: Both Athos and Aramis descended from nobility – if minor country nobility in Aramis' case – and Porthos had had two years in which to learn something about proper table etiquette. Musketeers were supposed to be gentlemen after all and by now Porthos fit right in. Except for some initial confusion after being seated, when he had stared at the tableware for a full minute as you would at a strangely coloured lizard that had taken to nest in your boot. Was it safe to touch or wiser to retreat and purge the whole thing in the fireplace? 

Despite all that Treville could not fail but notice that something was different about this dinner than any other time he had enjoyed a meal at his sister's house – even apart from the changed company, of course. It struck him what was missing as the soup was being served by the kitchen staff: "Have you mislaid a footman?" 

Henriette appeared unperturbed by the question. "I let him go about a month ago. It was a nice enough arrangement while Bernard was alive. Footmen are all the rage with the nobility and he liked to impress. But now that it's just me and the children, keeping a footman seemed rather silly." 

Treville's musketeers did not even blink. Athos merely asked politely for the salt and Henriette's former footman, perhaps enjoying a Parisian dungeon at the very moment, was forgotten as she bestowed her most enchanting smile on her favourite guest. 

Over the meat course, as if to make up for largely ignoring them before in favour of berating her brother, Henriette forced each of the musketeers to tell her the stories of how they had come to join the regiment. 

Considering his peculiar mood Treville had feared that Aramis would prove even more tacit than Athos on the subject. But it must have been his almost physical need to be polite to all women that had won out against his melancholia and made Aramis relate his tale with the usual charm – if without as much flourish as he might have employed under different circumstances. 

In the end Henriette looked visibly moved by Aramis' decision to take up soldiering after he had had to give up his one true love. But not as much as by Porthos' rise from a simple orphaned street child that her brother had apprehended, to one of the most promising soldiers of the regiment. 

Only Athos once again fascinated with polite reticence. Henriette did not take it as a discouragement: "Athos", she said, pronouncing each syllable carefully, "that is an unusual name." 

"My parents had a sense of humour." 

She smiled. 

"How does your wife like it? She must enjoy being Madame Athos." 

"I don't have a wife", Athos answered keeping his face blank. Treville spotted him trying to shoot a glance at Porthos who was grinning as he tucked into a piece of roast duck. Whether he it was the food or the conversation that brought him such pleasure the captain would not speculate. 

Meanwhile Henriette put on a mien of disappointment. 

"Such a shame. Not for lack of interested parties I'm sure." 

Sensing the direction in which this conversation was headed, Athos was beginning to become visibly flustered. Or maybe it had something to do with the fact that his captain was frowning while said captain's sister was paying him compliments. The same captain who just this afternoon had risked all their lives to confirm that his little sister was well and safe. 

"I … someone ought to see to the horses." 

Henriette raised her eyebrows in confusion. 

"The boy will have seen to it that they have everything they need. Please, don't concern yourself, Athos." 

"I intended no offense to your household but I would prefer to check myself." Athos rose. "My horse is … complicated … in a strange stable." 

"He's jittery, is what he is," Porthos chimed him, his grin made his eyes sparkle. "The horse, that is." 

Athos managed to keep a straight face. "He is", he responded. 

And with that Athos excused himself, before anyone thought of mentioning that Athos had arrived riding a mare. Henriette followed him with her eyes, not bothering to disguise the disappointed look on her face. 

Porthos winked at Aramis but his friend did not join in ribbing the other musketeer. He did not even acknowledge that he had noticed Porthos' attempt at catching his attention. Witnessing this lack of response the relief Treville had allowed building up since hearing Aramis share his story dissipated.

* * *

After dinner his sister took Treville into her late husband's former office. As soon as they stepped into the room the only distinct impression Treville had of it was that it was brown. There was nothing personal about it: an empty desk furnished with a sturdy looking set of drawers, a high-backed chair, and what Treville assumed was a filing cabinet. He also noted that it looked much tidier than his own office back in Paris with its constantly growing, shrinking and moving stacks of reports, muster books and correspondence. 

But then, he was not dead yet. No doubt Treville's office was going to look as desolate and void of life once he was gone. Before it was passed on to its new owner and changed to suit their needs. 

Heedless of her brother's contemplations Henriette opened a drawer and piled papers onto the desk to bend over them. 

The musketeers were absent. As soon as Henriette had mentioned they had free use of the private library Porthos had dragged Aramis off in that direction. Treville knew that Porthos had made great progress since he had first started to learn how to read shortly upon joining the regiment. As Treville valued literacy highly among his men he had often enough lent him his own books for that very purpose. But Porthos still needed some help on occasion and it appeared that right now Aramis was his favoured tutor. 

Or maybe Porthos had simply decided to do something about the melancholy surrounding his friend that had flared up again during dinner. 

Treville dispelled the thought with a shake of his head. 

Where Athos had disappeared to he had no idea. For all he knew he might have gone hiding with the horses again. Treville could not decide whether he should be more embarrassed on Athos' behalf and ask Henriette to stop pursuing him, or whether he should confront Athos about what was so wrong with his darling little sister for him to reject her. 

But then Athos might drop dead on the spot or spontaneously combust if he did the latter, so Treville would probably have to talk to Henriette if he did not want to lose his best swordsman to such a piddling offense. He knew very well that his sister was no innocent whose virtue needed protection. 

He also thought he knew his sister's games and that Athos had nothing to fear, but Athos did not. And who was to say whether Henriette had anything to fear from Athos? 

Keeping his past to himself was Athos' right. Treville was not in the habit of prying into his soldier's private affairs. What mattered to him were the present and the person so much more than their pedigree. And more than that: the unspoken but universally understood trust that their regiment was founded upon was mutual. If Treville truly believed that whatever troubled Athos could prove dangerous to his soldiers, only then would it be his business to intervene without being asked. But as it was, Treville doubted that Athos' shrouded past love life would ever be a cause of grief for the whole regiment. 

His sister though was another case. 

Treville's breath escaped his lungs in a long sigh as he watched her rummage through the papers. There was another matter pushing to the forefront of his mind: 

"Have you heard the name Graçay lately?" While the whole assassination attempt still felt like a scene from a dream, unreal and without consequence, Treville felt he owed it to the men who had risked their lives protecting him to at least make some sense of the affair. 

"Yes, the Vicomte! His wife died! Poor thing." She abandoned the desk for a moment. "That's the second wife he's lost in childbed." 

Treville felt a chill crawl up his spine. 

"They say she was already a bit too advanced in age to try, especially after two miscarriages. But they had hoped so much for another son to carry on the family name after losing the other child a couple of years back." She paused, knitting her brow. "What was his name again?" 

"Henri." So much like her name. Both of them named after a dead king. 

"Really?" She furled her brow. "Why did I think it was Renaud? Why did you ask?" Her eyes widened and she dropped a sheet of paper to the floor: "Don't tell me something else has happened to the poor man!" 

"No!" Treville He guessed by his sister's slow blinking that his denial might have been a bit too quick. Averting his gaze he bent to pick up the dropped document [,]which appeared to be a letter. "His name came up in conversation. He hasn't been at court for a while so I wondered what he was up to." _Murder, for example._ Any attempt of Treville's to feel sympathy for the man's plight was doomed from the outset. He could not get the image of Aramis almost getting trampled out of his head. 

"Well, I'm not surprised. I doubt he wants to be exposed to any more whispering about his doomed lineage from the high and mighty." She shook her head and took the letter back from him. It was only then that his eyes flicked over the date and he noted that it had been dated exactly two years ago. The 27th of March, the same date as… He withdrew his hand quickly as if burned. _It has been two years since Savoy. Exactly two years_ , he realised. _To the day_. No wonder Aramis had been so withdrawn all day. 

It took his sister's voice to tear him back into the present: "The poor man," Henriette repeated. "You know, of course I miss Bernard, but I'm so happy he gave me Jeanette and Louis-Charles. To be left with nothing like that, neither spouse nor child, and the Vicomte isn't a young man anymore…" She looked at him with and odd expression he was at a loss to describe. He saw her bite her lip as if in deep thought or worry. "Will you be staying until Louis-Charles comes home?" 

"I'm afraid I can't. I have to be back in Paris by Thursday at the latest." 

She sucked in her lower lip, her disappointment evident. "It's a shame. He asked after you recently. He'll be sorry he missed you" 

"You can tell him I'm sorry I missed him as well." It was flattering to be remembered by one so young. 

"I'm glad you have your boys. They seem to respect you a great deal." 

"I think the world of them." Flat footed by the apparent change of topic, Treville did not manage a more elaborate answer. But praise of his musketeers came naturally to him. At least as long as none of the men were within earshot. 

But whether or not Treville felt this was the right time to address her obvious infatuation with Athos, his sister had other plans: "As long as you are here, there are a few documents I would like you to check," she said. 

Treville took one look at the title of the document lying on top of the stack Henriette was going through and furled his brow. 

"I'm not a lawyer." Henriette bestowed him with a crooked smile. 

"Really! But maybe you know someone in Paris." 

"You know," she straightened and picked up one of the documents. Treville did not miss her frowning at it. In that moment he noticed lines on her face that he would have sworn had not been there the last time he had visited. "I have someone to help with the correspondence with our business overseas, of course, until Louis-Charles comes of age. He already worked with Bernard when he was alive, but he came recommended by his family…" She patted the papers without real purpose. "If you could… you know, just to make sure our Louis-Charles isn't cheated out of even a single sous of his inheritance." 

"Is there a reason for this caution?" 

He almost jumped at seeing her expression when she looked up: 

"They accused me of defrauding our community of almost twenty thousand livres just because I put off the inventory of Bernard's assets an extra month." 

Treville took a second to comprehend what she had just told him. It was a shameful accusation without evidence. And this was the first he had heard of it. 

He took a step closer and looked at her from underneath a raised eyebrow. 

"Did you take the money?" Henriette rolled her eyes. 

"Everyone does it, Jean-Armand! Why shouldn't I have?" She crossed her arms in front of her chest and dared him to berate her. The gesture was so reminiscent of their shared childhood that a gust of nostalgia swept any response he might have uttered. "I'd rather spend the money now to provide my children with a proper station in society than have these fine relations of theirs try and fail once I am gone." 

Treville touched her softly on the arm to make her look into his eyes. He could feel her trembling. "Henri…" 

"You should see what vultures Bernard's kin are." She swallowed, calming her voice. "Claude, his younger brother, is convinced he should have inherited at least part of our property in New France, when clearly Bernard's children are the only eligible heirs. What claim does he think he has?" 

Treville pulled her closer and wondered when this world of family affairs had become so strange. When he had left the family estate – still half a boy – to become a soldier he had never imagined the grown-up affairs of his family would one day resemble the jumbles and intrigue of court life this closely. 

"Do you need money?" he asked. "Are they doing this because Bernard left you any debts?" 

"No. Bernard has left us with more than enough to keep our living without having to concede to the wishes of his family. Especially if I get rid of that frozen rock overseas. Of course, then Bernard's kin will start questioning my suitability to manage my children's future again. Devil take them!" 

"I thought these people were dear to you?" 

She looked up at him from where she had rested her head against his shoulder and her lips twisted into a sardonic smile. 

"The face of death really brings out people's true nature." 

"When did this behaviour start?" He had managed to see Henriette twice since Bernard had died and she had never mentioned anything like this. Not even in her letters. For the first time it occurred to him that her gauntness might not be due only to illness. 

"You never said anything. When you wrote …" 

"What could you have done? They are only exercising their rights as concerned family members." 

Earlier this very same day Treville had felt guilty about endangering his musketeers by obsessing about his family of blood, when it was obvious that more frequently he neglected his birth family in favour of these boys. When was the last time he had been to inspect the family estate in Gascony instead of relying on his managers? Had he no care to ensure that there would be something for his sister's children to inherit once he passed on? 

"The next time your brothers-in-law gather together to suggest how you're to manage your children's patrimony I am going to be there and remind them who has the king's ear and who doesn't." 

"It is going to put the fear of God into them." Henriette kissed his cheek. "Thank you." 

"You know there is one thing that might keep them off your back permanently." 

She sighed. "It would be nice to be rid of this censure and pressure, yes. I know everyone will be their amiable selves again as soon as I'm back under the control of a man." 

She let her gaze sweep over the abandoned office as if she imagined a strange new husband sitting in that high-backed chair bent over the papers, and then shook her head. 

"I'd rather not remarry at all. Not until the children are grown. They might decide to take them away if I do, just to spite me." 

"Well, they certainly aren't going to approve of your next husband if you choose a handsome musketeer with no name or past." 

"You mean Athos?" She smirked. "Who said anything of marriage? You can be so naive!" 

She went back to organise the documents on the desk that she wanted him to have, focusing on the papers as she spoke. "I'll remarry as soon as Louis-Charles is able to take charge of his own estate. No sooner. I'll not put their future in anyone else's hands." 

As she looked up he spotted tears in her eyes. 

"We do all we can to protect our children, don't we? What's a blow to our own honour and pride?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on chapter 3: 
> 
> Treville's family relations are completely made-up. As is Arnaud de Boussand, the Vicomte de Graçay (as far as I can tell there was no vicomté called Graçay in 17th century France).
> 
> The one thing not made up is that despite the nominal rights and freedoms that widowhood granted women in 17th century France there were plenty of ways for her deceased husband's relatives to apply pressure to widows regardless of their standing in society. Some of which I foisted onto poor Henriette.


	4. The Mass

### Part IV – The Mass

**28th of March, 1627. Palm Sunday, night**

It was dark when Aramis found him. 

Treville had withdrawn to the lone comfort of the abandoned parlour, taking advantage of one of the upholstered chairs facing the fireplace. Darkness reigned, covering him like a blanket despite the best attempts of the crackling fire. The window already showed nothing but the inky night outside. The last colourful splashes of dusk had since faded to a black canvas to be broken up only by starlight and the moon illuminating tattered bands of clouds. 

Surrounded by this canopy of half-light Treville was enjoying the sensation of heat created both by the fire and a bottle of red wine when he became aware of a presence lingering on the doorstep. 

"Aramis." He bid the musketeer to step into the room and Aramis stepped into the firelight. Before he had ordered the servants to retire for the night Treville had asked for another log to be placed into the fireplace. That had been two hours ago. The only other light source in the room, apart from the slowly starving flames and the starlight frequently shrouded by clouds was a set of candles almost burnt out sitting on the low, round table. 

"So you're still about. Need I fear for my sister's reputation?" 

As far as Treville could see in the lighting conditions, Aramis managed to remain relatively straight-faced at the playful insinuation. Treville wondered if the stress he had been under had anything to do with it. 

"Forgive me, sir, but I believe Madame well capable of defending her honour. We need not fear for her virtue." 

If there was a slight emphasis on 'her' Treville let it slide. Either way, the statement made him lower his head for a fraction of a second to hide a half-smile. He could trust his boys in his sister's home and Aramis knew it. 

"In fact, your sister sends me. She appears to be so concerned about your wound that she considered calling for a physician. Unless you'd prefer me having a look?" 

"What is it with you people and my arm? It's a scratch! Girard saw to it. You were there." 

"I'll make sure to tell her." 

Treville was almost certain Aramis had already told her. And that he had waited quite a while after that before coming to him. In fact Treville was sure that Aramis was only looking for an excuse to talk to him. 

He rubbed his eyes, watching the bright afterimages of flames dance and die inside his eyelids. 

"You think she doesn't believe I fell off my horse?" Treville had intended a light tone but feared he sounded strained. 

"I don't know why anyone could imagine you would be hiding something from them." 

Aramis was only little more successful at a jovial voice than his captain, but still Treville shot him a look that even under the dismal lighting conditions could not be misunderstood as anything other than 'you're the one to talk'! 

"I want to apologise for earlier today." 

Treville blinked in surprise. So that was what Aramis had come down here for. The heaviness of his thoughts compressed the air inside his lungs into a sigh. But then he nodded, a sign for Aramis to go on. The musketeer might have missed it in the gloom but still he continued: 

"I was not myself, sir. I have been distracted. It is unforgivable. I swear it won't happen again." _Distracted_? Was there even a need to ask why? Treville only had to call to mind what he had realised in Bernard's office: it was the anniversary. And Treville had not even realised it, despite having had the result of that day in plain sight throughout their journey. 

"Aramis…" 

In all the time that had passed since Savoy they had never talked about it. Even though there might have been a need to on a personal level there had never seemed an appropriate moment. Most likely it was because, to be honest, Treville had actively avoided it, and he suspected to a certain extent Aramis had done the same. 

Maybe now the young musketeer felt that with the emotional distance of a couple of years and in this private setting it would be easier to discuss. But then, when you actively turned your mind to something, years, of course, could as easily be melted away as frost by a spurt of hot blood. 

Was this the moment then? If Treville told Aramis that he understood would he cross a boundary that would forever remain violated? 

"Sit," Treville said, the word containing the better part of an order. While certain appearances had to be held up even off-duty leaving Aramis standing would simply be impolite. "I feel foolish using a glass when I'm the only one drinking." Aramis kept lingering just outside the orange cone of firelight. 

"Sit," he repeated. This time Aramis obeyed and dragged a chair next to Treville's, taking a seat. Treville had him procure his cup and poured him some wine before he sat back down again. For a short while the only sounds to be heard were those the fire made, spitting and hissing as it consumed its dwindling wooden offerings. 

"You made a misjudgement that could have cost you your life, and the king a very valuable soldier," Treville began. He turned his head so he could watch the expression of the man sitting next to him. Aramis took the berating without a visible reaction. His face remained impassive, grave. "But so did I." 

He could see Aramis look up in what he assumed was surprise. In the sparse light it was impossible to tell for sure. But Treville did not allow him to interrupt. "I did not take the threat seriously enough and chances are I would not be here had you three not decided to indulge your idiot captain despite the danger it put you in." He felt his lip curl. "If I'm not being reasonable what hope is there for you?" 

Aramis shrugged. 

"We keep Athos around for just that purpose."

Treville smiled at the return of Aramis' humour. It was further proof that the demons haunting him could be shackled again, if not banished entirely. 

"I accept your apology. And I presume this distraction you mention is going to pass." 

Aramis affirmed voicelessly and took a long sip of wine. Despite the dim light Treville did not miss Aramis frown. The unease he had felt all day in his company had returned with full force. He knew his mind would not let him rest, unless he finished what he had started. But how even to begin this conversation? 

"It's not your fault." 

Treville felt wine spill onto his hand at the sound of Aramis' voice. _How had he guessed?_

"The death of Boussand…" 

_Oh._

He set down his glass on the little round table right next to the weeping candles and waited for Aramis to go on. 

"Captain, if these men were sent by the Vicomte … if this is somehow connected to the death of his son," having spoken softly, he paused to clear his throat and continued in a firmer voice. It was as if the encroaching night commanded every utterance to be reduced to a whisper. 

"He has no right to blame you. His son was a soldier, he volunteered. He wouldn't have appreciated you holding him back. He was doing his duty as you were doing yours. He wouldn't blame you, and no one else should." 

A grim smile threatened to escape Treville. He had expected to be the one comforting Aramis during their conversation. How had they ended up this way? 

"You are very understanding." 

"We're soldiers. We do as we're told. As we must." 

Treville closed his eyes. Even the glow of the pitiable fire was exceedingly bright. Aramis might as well have been echoing the cardinal's words from so many years ago: _Serving France requires sacrifices_. 

"Even if it kills you?" A

ramis' eyebrows drew together in confusion. But he did not hesitate in his response. "If there is no other way." 

Treville swallowed and found his mouth dry. He reached for the wine and emptied it and then stopped to refill his glass. He should tell him the truth. In that moment he wanted to tell him the truth about Savoy. But by the time he had set down the bottle the moment had passed in silence, unspoken words fading back into unreality. 

_Serving France requires sacrifices._

He wondered if de Boussand had felt that way as he had choked on his blood. And he at least had volunteered. Asking someone to go to battle for king and country at least left them with a hope of coming out alive. It was a different matter to ask whether they minded having their throats slit. 

But he suppressed the anger and the frustration and the question that had leapt into his mind unbidden – whether Aramis thought it was worth it. Confronting Aramis with another existential crisis hardly seemed fair. 

As he leant back again the wine swirled innocently in his glass, a coward's liquid shame. They were soldiers. Soldiers died in war and there was no telling beforehand of when or how. All they could do until that time was to look out for each other in what little ways they could. 

"This is not what you were distracted about earlier, is it?" 

Aramis stopped to think and Treville felt his shoulders tense. 

"You say I value my life too little," Aramis began, "but you wouldn't let yourself be concerned by the assassination attempt at all today." 

"I've had a lot on my mind lately." His answer was dismissive and yet his throat constricted around a lump that had not been there before. 

Audible against the ever more feeble feeding noises of the fire Aramis made a sound that was something between a sigh and a strangled grunt. It seemed even in a private setting it did not do to openly snort at your captain. 

"You should be more careful. I think Porthos would be really upset if someone ended up killing you. He looks up to you." 

Aramis' voice betrayed hardly any of the levity that his words implied and Treville found it similarly not within him to smile. He remembered how Porthos had indeed been rather distraught at his Captain's callousness handling of the assassination attempt. 

"Is there anything else you would like to tell me?" Treville asked. Aramis must have been wondering about Treville's own distraction. 

"I was wondering, Captain, if I might ask a question." 

Even in the gloom of the parlour Treville could identify the warring emotions on Aramis' face. It was not simply that Aramis was in a solemn mood. He was nervous. Ice crept up Treville's back despite the fire. 

"Permission granted." He took the opportunity to top up his glass again. "Ask away." 

"It is about that training mission in Savoy, back in '25." 

Treville swept a hand across his eyes. Before Aramis had even opened his mouth Treville had already guessed what the subject would be. He would have loved to give another dismissive response, but how could he possibly justify turning him away, when Treville was the source of his pain? When he turned to face the young man he found the same agony that he had thought his own reflected in Aramis' dark eyes. 

"What about it?" 

"Do you remember Marsac, sir?" 

Oh, _Marsac_! Of course he remembered Marsac! How could he not? Marsac alone guaranteed that Treville would never be able to move on, no matter the peace he might make with the other facets of his shame. The only way to truly close this chapter would be if Marsac ever returned and Treville was forced to end the job the duke and the cardinal had begun, only with a noose instead of a cavalry sword. 

The man was a deserter after all. 

_Even though we deserted Marsac first._

But if God and fate were merciful Aramis would never know any of it. So out loud he simply said: 

"Of course I do. He ran and left you to die." 

Whatever Aramis might have hoped to hear this was not it. If it were lighter in the parlour Treville wondered whether there would be an angry blush colouring his cheeks. 

"That's not how it was! He saved me!" 

"I know. And then he abandoned you in a frozen clearing with twenty corpses." _As did I_ , he thought. _And I am the one who put the corpses there_. 

"That—it's not … I should've …" Aramis was obviously sorry to have brought it up. So was Treville. But at least the last comment had shut him up for the moment, so Treville let the matter slide, despite the man's sputtering being no way to address a captain. Treville could not pretend the subject did not make him feel more kindly disposed than usual towards Aramis. But still he had to keep in mind that their conversation took place on a bridge of glass spanning a deep gorge. A wrong answer or the right kind of question might make a crack appear. 

Aramis did not leave it at that, however. After he had taken a sip of wine and a couple of moments to silently compose himself he tried a different approach: "That night, sir. Do you ever think about it? Do you wonder …?" 

"It doesn't do to wonder," Treville replied. _I don't need to wonder._ I know. 

Yet, he could see that Aramis needed more of him than dismissive platitudes. It was apparent in his bright eyes, his brittle voice. He was talking to his captain while navigating a complex sea of memory and emotion. So Treville had to help him. More than that: as it was Treville who had gotten him into this desolate state, it was the least he could do to offer some form of honesty and comfort to the man. 

Well, as much honesty as he could afford. The subject was a whetted blade without a hilt with no safe way to handle it. 

"But yes, I think about it from time to time." _Every time the cardinal asks for another favour._

It was a sad truth but in France cardinal and king were practically synonymous and Richelieu's caprices were the one thing from which Treville could not protect his musketeers. All he needed to remind himself of that fact were twenty lonely graves in a town without a name. 

And along with that thought the question crept back into his head: the question the cardinal had asked when Treville had fled from his office two years ago: 

_Would you have refused your king?_

Rather than contemplating an answer Treville wondered whether the question should not better be _Would you do it again_? 

"Marsac wanted to look for answers. I think..." Treville tilted his head as Aramis spoke into the silence. He had turned his face away from the fireplace and so his voice trailed off into the darkness. 

"I am sorry we still don't know for certain who attacked you." 

"I remember it was said it might have been the Spanish", Aramis said, hands playing with his empty cup. 

"They left no conclusive tracks. If you came to me for answers I will have to disappoint you." 

_May I rot in hell as long as my king can sleep soundly_. 

"We just thought… I thought…" Aramis swallowed noisily, "Marsac and I. We had to find out. Perhaps that's why we'd been spared." 

He looked to Treville, his expression haggard, riven by an emotion he had visible trouble to contain. "Why were there twenty dead musketeers in that clearing? Not twenty-one? Not twenty-two?" 

A chill ran up Treville's spine as he was offered a glance at the root of the matter: Poor Aramis was wondering why he of all his comrades had been the one to survive. As if there had to be a reason at all. 

He turned his face away and stared at the moving shapes created by the flickering light dancing on the far wall. If Aramis needed to believe in divine intervention to make sense of his suffering Treville would not stop him. 

"Aramis…" 

It was then that he remembered the story the cardinal had recounted for him the day he had returned from Savoy, that of Abraham's temptation. The memory still managed to rouse his choler. Their own story had played out so differently: There had been no angel sent from heaven to stay his hand. And certainly neither the child nor the lamb offered in its stead had been supposed to jump from the altar, mutilated, bleeding, guts trailing, like the walking dead come to haunt Treville – with their throats slashed, and dark, dark, dead brown eyes. 

The images defied any attempt to believe in a god who abhorred human sacrifice. Instead this deity had allowed Aramis to remain tortured by guilt over not having died alongside his friends for two years. 

"I'm sorry I burdened you with this." Aramis' dark locks obscured his face as he lowered his gaze to the floor. Apparently Treville had remained silent too long. 

"Are you sorry you survived?" Treville saw Aramis' lips part in the firelight but no words came out. 

"You were injured. It's not your fault Marsac removed you from the fight. You did what you could." 

"I let him leave." Aramis' voice sounded hollow, defeated. It raised the hairs on Treville's neck. "If I had stopped him—" 

"How? Injured as you were?" 

Aramis angled his faced slightly toward him, his eyes dark and reflective as if wet. Treville held his gaze. 

"Would you have jumped in front of his horse as well?" 

"Maybe. I do that sometimes." 

Treville flinched. But at the same time he could not help but let a wave of tenderness engulf him for the young man. Despite what Marsac had done to him Aramis would not stop defending a friend. 

Taking a deep breath Treville let his eyes fall shut for a moment. 

"It is natural for you to feel hurt and displaced, but I won't allow you to make stupid mistakes like today because you're questioning your right to be alive." 

Aramis stopped looking at him. The young musketeer reached for the bottle and drained its remaining contents into his cup. 

"Marsac was a soldier just like you. He knew what he was doing. It was his decision to leave. He deserted and he left you behind with a head wound, in winter." 

"He might have returned," Aramis paused. He turned back to facing the fireplace. But so illuminated by the flames Treville could see him blinking against the dampness that clung to his lashes. 

"He might have gone looking for help. Perhaps the attackers were still out there." 

Treville leant closer in his chair, setting down his glass of wine and folding his hands between his knees. 

"Do you blame me as well then for taking you away from there? Only I am guilty of that. Blame me if you wish to blame anyone, not yourself." 

"No." Aramis exhaled in a noiseless sigh as expressive of frustration as of grief. 

"There is nothing to be gained by self-flagellation, Aramis. Who lives and who dies is beyond our control. There is nothing you could have done, except for throwing away your life as well – which would have helped no one." 

"But it doesn't feel right!" Aramis took a shaky breath. "They are all gone. And I'm still here." 

Even as the firelight grew dimmer, redder, the anguish echoed in the words was apparent on Aramis' face. The sight immediately took Treville back to that snowy clearing and is aftermath. 

Again and again Treville had wondered what it was that Aramis kept seeing as he withdrew into his thoughts as he had during their journey. Did he remember anything beyond the massacre and that place of slaughter covered in frost and bodies? Did he remember the little town they had gone to, past the border? Or had his head injury been too severe for him to remember their trip at all? Did he remember the graves? It would have been easier to dig a mass grave and be done with it but everything in Treville had balked at the idea, so they had left the town with a churchyard twenty graves larger. 

Or did Aramis instead remember the dead musketeers as they had been in life? His friends? 

As he fumbled for a response Treville was reminded of Henriette's words from earlier in the evening: 'to lose everything'. What was that like? Perhaps it was a lot like sitting in a snowy clearing, surrounded by the corpses of your fallen comrades; the lone survivor. 

He wished he could offer a comforting answer, but he had to wrestle to find anything to say that would not be a lie and still keep Aramis innocent of the extent of his betrayal. If a lie was all he could give Aramis he would. _What's a little blow to our honour?_ But he wanted Aramis to have the comfort of a truth. 

"I'm glad you survived." 

Despite the warmth still emanating from the dying fire and the smell of burnt wood he recalled the way the chill of the air bit his skin, felt the sting of the incongruously bright sun reflected by the frost, and he heard the crunch of the dirt frozen underfoot. 

"When I rode into that clearing, I thought I had lost you all. I thought I had gotten you all killed." 

He saw dark shapes standing out stark against the patchy snow in the bright midday light. "When we found you hurt but still breathing it was like a miracle." 

He heard the excited shouts of one of his men – Cotard – who was no longer with them. _July 1625, rapier thrust to the thigh._

Aramis did not stir while Treville spoke, but the tilt of his head indicated he was listening. He cleared his throat before continuing. "You were fevered and cold," he said. "The Savoyards didn't expect you to survive, but your fellow musketeers wouldn't believe it." He felt a smile tug at his the corner of his mouth, but his muscles were too tense to allow it. "You proved them right. You fought and clung to life, and you survived." 

A throaty quality crept back into his voice as he watched tiny flames lick at the last remains of their once ample dinner. "I can't tell you why no one else did. But I'm grateful you're still here." 

Aramis swallowed audibly in the gloom and Treville did not wait for an answer from him. 

"It is normal that you should grieve." The lump in his throat along with the weight pressing onto his lungs evaporated as he spoke – exhaled with his breath at the realisation: "But you can't carry their ghosts on your back forever." 

"I don't." 

Treville's blood turned to ice at the tone of Aramis' voice. 

"I had not even realised that the anniversary was coming up! Porthos of all people brought it all back, by being all concerned all of a sudden." He fixed his gaze onto his boots. "How could I not have known? How could I have forgotten about them?" 

The vision Treville had conjured up of the Savoyard forest broke apart like glass. He hardly dared to blink, praying the floor beneath his seat would not vanish alongside it. "Aramis, it has been two years—" 

"You still think of them! And I was there, and they're already fading." 

Stunned into silence Treville forced himself to keep a neutral mien as his mind raced. Why could Aramis not slow down until Treville's thoughts had stopped swimming in darkness? 

"Sometimes I think of them, but it's like looking through stained glass. I even mix up their faces." 

So, the reason for the musketeer's melancholia was not as simple as mere guilt over having survived. He also felt guilty for living. 

"You said I took an unnecessary risk today, Captain. It didn't feel like it at the time." He had gone back to rolling the empty cup between his hands. "I want that feeling gone." 

Aramis sighed. "I still want to find out what happened." His tone was once again soft, apologetic. "They deserve as much. But I don't want to let it consume my life." He exhaled noisily. "What does that make me?" 

"A wise man." _An enviable man_ , Treville thought. 

Aramis regarded him with scepticism written into the lines of his mouth. 

The fire sputtered angrily as it died. Defeated by its hunger it left the candle stubs alone to fend off the encroaching gloom. 

"Someone's ghost is a heavy load to carry; as is guilt. Shaking them off does not mean you're forgetting them, nor does it dishonour their memory." 

Treville grimaced as he realised he was paraphrasing what the Cardinal had been trying to tell him two years ago. He regretted having emptied the wine already: Richelieu had been right, damn him! 

"We follow our orders, we fight, and if we must we die. All we can do is look out for each other while we have the chance." He dared to reach out to the other man and lightly lowered a hand onto his shoulder. Aramis let him. 

"I'm relieved to hear that you won't let it consume you." 

Aramis nodded. He turned over his cup again, hunting a thought. "I only wish I had stopped Marsac from leaving. Made sure it won't consume him either." 

"If he has any sense he'll have forgotten about it, built a cottage, married a pretty girl and fathered a handful of children by now." He could not be sure in the reduced light but Aramis might have twisted his lips into a smile. 

"What about you?" 

Treville furrowed his brow as it took him a long moment to recall what Aramis might mean. 

He was tempted to pick up his glass again to have something to do. But then he knew. He shared Aramis' peculiar melancholy: Guilt over not feeling enough guilt. Because his decision had been the only right one. 

_Would you do it again?_

Would he not have resigned and walked away otherwise? 

He had done what had to be done. What he sought to punish himself for was not that he could not let go, but that deep down he might already have started. 

The words stuck in his throat like a pile of bones. Admitting to having to let go felt like a new betrayal. 

His musketeers should not have been used as tools and then discarded. He did not like the idea of having forgiven – both the cardinal and himself – for what had been done to them. But he had. 

"There are other things to consider for me," he said glad of the fact that he had years of practicing keeping an unreadable expression. Deep inside his guts he felt shame stretch its clinging tentacles. 

"Not Boussand!" 

"Other things," he repeated. "Should you ever aspire to a position of command, you will understand." Treville hated to sound so patronising just after Aramis had opened up to him. But the young musketeer was again headed for bridges made of spun sugar and glass. 

"Captain?" 

"Yes, Aramis." 

"About what you said about following orders." 

Treville felt his shoulders tense up. 

"It helps to know you're there to take these decisions for us." 

Treville looked to the floor. "I'm glad you feel that way." Even in the dim candlelight he would not risk Aramis spotting how his expression had soured. Out of the corner of his eye he imagined he saw the lines tighten around Aramis' mouth and hoped it was not from worry about him. 

"We are still going to investigate Graçay as soon as we're back." Aramis set down his metal cup on the small table with an audible _clunk!_ that made the candle flames shudder. "Without orders if we have to." 

Treville relaxed enough to be able to let a smile flash over his face for the briefest of moments. 

They both turned at the sound of footsteps. 

"Aramis?" A tall, broad-shouldered figure had appeared in the open door holding a lamp and peering into the darkness. As the fire in the parlour had been reduced to softly glowing embers and the dwindling candles to watery stubs the resulting gloom would take any newcomer's eyes a moment to get used to. 

Treville was taken aback for a second. The silhouette could only belong to one man, but he could not recall ever having heard Porthos speak so softly before. It only added to his confusion when he felt Aramis tense next to him. Even in the dim light he could see the young man sitting up straight, stiffening his spine. 

"Yes." 

Something about the tone of that one syllable told him that even had the room been flooded with daylight Aramis' face would have been unreadable. 

"Is anybody in this house asleep?" Treville's usual growl came back to him easily now that there was someone to reprimand. 

The intruder apologised and saluted politely when he spotted his captain upon entering. "I was just looking for Aramis," he explained. Treville told him to be at ease. 

"Well, you have found him." Aramis rose to his feet. "If you'll excuse us, Captain." 

"Only if you will go straight to bed. I can't have you keep my sister's servants awake." 

Even though Treville had told them to withdraw early in the night he knew the servants would stay up as long as the three musketeers were about. It was as if they did not trust the soldiers not to make off with the silver. 

"Of course," the response came. "Good night, sir." 

"Good night, gentlemen." 

Porthos bowed his head as gravely as if he had been in parade uniform. 

Treville could not help but watch them as Aramis walked past Porthos and out of the room with the latter unhappily watching his friend in turn. In the yellow light of the lamp Treville could make out their expressions clear enough. 

Aramis may have been back in the mask he had chosen to hide behind from his friends, but Porthos' worried frown was an open book. He was no idiot. He knew something was up. And Treville in that moment knew that Aramis would be taken care of, in whichever way he needed to be. 

As for himself Treville once more regretted the bottle of wine that already sat empty at the foot of his chair. His mind was aching with confusion in a way that made his pulse race. 

Pressing the wick of a fresh candle to the flames before the old set managed to die down he forced his hands to remain steady. As he righted the newly lit candle a drop of heated tallow brushed his index finger making him curse. Resisting both the urge to cool the digit in his mouth and the equally childish act of welcoming the distracting sensation of pain he wrapped his handkerchief around the burned skin and allowed his thoughts to roam. 

Despite all odds, the long anticipated talk with Aramis had not been the moment of revelation he had hoped for. Treville sighed. He hoped that at least Aramis had gained some peace of mind during the evening. Treville's thoughts had only tumbled into even greater chaos. 

Even Aramis had appeared eager to tell him – without knowing what he was doing – that what had been done could not have been objectionable as long as it had been necessary. If he were to believe him, Treville might as well have listened to the cardinal two years ago. And maybe he should have. 

Richelieu was right. And if Richelieu was right, and the right decision had been back in Savoy it meant there was neither need for his guilt nor a need to hate the cardinal. But Treville still hated the cardinal if only for being the man who made him realise this fact. 

Deep down Treville had always known exactly what would happen when he gave the cardinal what he had demanded. It would have been naïve to ever assume one could afford to keep a clean conscience in his position. Treville had not objected to the deed because he had known that a risk needed to be taken. For the state. For the King. For France. 

As he rubbed the now itching skin of his finger through the soft fabric of the handkerchief he found that knowing and not mere fear had made him ride out there almost immediately after. Claiming anything else would have been ludicrous. For if he did not believe these young men had died for a cause it would render their deaths meaningless. 

It was a thought much more hurtful than the grief. 

Still Treville felt the tendrils of guilt writhing in his brain and his distaste for Richelieu and his spy-games remained as alive and strong as it had been. If only the cardinal had shown some remorse. If only he had shown some understanding of Treville's dilemma: that despite accepting the necessity for the act he would never consider it a cause for pride. That contrary to Richelieu's delight in their success he needed to grieve for his dead. The only sons he had. 

And yet he could not stop hearing the echo of that hellish conversation: 

_Would you do it again?_

Experience dictated that doing the right thing did not mean you had to like it. Regretting the lives lost did not mean Treville regretted saving the duchess or removing a harmful spy. Abandoning the guilt and the ghosts connected with his decision did not mean he would abandon the memory of the dead, nor was it dishonest. 

The thought was comforting. 

_Would you do it again?_

Treville remembered all their names, and how their faces had looked locked in death. The shards of the image shattered only so shortly before fell into place easily: He recalled the sight of the dried blood that had looked like dirt in the tainted snow. He recalled the lack of smell as much as the absence of anything could be imprinted into someone's memory. He had taken a long, hard look to be able to remember. Whether that had been wise or foolish he did not care to know. But the shapes of the dead bodies recreated themselves easily in front of his mind's eye. He thought of Aramis and the nothing-stare that returned to the young man from time to time even two years on. 

Treville would rather live with the grief and the guilt than without a conscience. 

_Would you do it again?_ Could there be any other answer?

Aramis and the cardinal might believe in divine intervention, in fate, in a plan. But Treville was still not sure what any of this said about the God he had been raised to fear and worship. 

He hoped that Aramis' God was the same merciful one that the cardinal had invoked two years ago: the one who would send an angel in time to intervene in man's fate. 

This God did not drink human blood. 

Treville's did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Notes on chapter four: 
> 
> In case you were wondering: Moloch is the name of a deity that is commonly associated with human sacrifice in the form of burnt offerings and the burning of children by their parents in particular. What a happy image to end things on. Sorry.


End file.
